THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  RIVER'S  END 


BY 

JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD 


McKINLAY,   STONE  &  MACKENZIE 

NEW   YORK 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
COSMOPOLITAN  BOOK  CORPORATION 


All  rights  reserved,   including   that   of  translation 
into  foreign  languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 


PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


The  River's  Find 


657356 


THE  RIVER'S  END 


BETWEEN  Conniston,  of  His  Maj 
esty's  Royal  Northwest  Mounted 
Police,  and  Keith,  the  outlaw,  there  was 
a  striking  physical  and  facial  resemblance. 
Both  had  observed  it,  of  course.  It  gave 
them  a  sort  of  confidence  in  each  other. 
Between  them  it  hovered  in  a  subtle  and 
unanalyzed  presence  that  was  constantly 
suggesting  to  Conniston  a  line  of  action 
that  would  have  made  him  a  traitor  to 
his  oath  of  duty.  For  nearly  a  month  he 
had  crushed  down  the  whispered  temptings 
of  this  thing  between  them.  He  repre 
sented  the  law.  He  was  the  law.  For 
twenty-seven  months  he  had  followed 
Keith,  and  always  there  had  been  in  his 
mind  that  parting  injunction  of  the  splen 
did  service  of  which  he  was  a  part — "  Don't 
come  back  until  you  get  your  man,  dead 

or  alive."     Otherwise 

A    racking    cough    split    in    upon    his 


2  THE  RIVER'S  END 

thoughts.  He  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  hit* 
cot,  and  at  the  gasping  cry  of  pain  that 
came  with  the  red  stain  of  blood  on  his 
lips  Keith  went  to  him  and  with  a  strong 
arm  supported  his  shoulders.  He  said 
nothing,  and  after  a  moment  Conniston 
wiped  the  stain  away  and  laughed  softly, 
even  before  the  shadow  of  pain  had  faded 
from  his  eyes.  One  of  his  hands  rested  on 
a  wrist  that  still  bore  the  ring-mark  of  a 
handcuff.  The  sight  of  it  brought  him 
back  to  grim  reality.  After  all,  fate  was 
playing  whimsically  as  well  as  tragically 
with  their  destinies. 

"Thanks,  old  top,"  he  said.     "Thanks." 
His    fingers    closed    over    the    manacle- 
marked  wrist. 

Over  their  heads  the  arctic  storm  was 
crashing  in  a  mighty  fury,  as  if  striving  to 
beat  down  the  little  cabin  that  had  dared 
to  rear  itself  in  the  dun-gray  emptiness  at 
the  top  of  the  world,  eight  hundred  miles 
from  civilization.  There  were  curious 
wailings,  strange  screeching  sounds,  and 
heart-breaking  meanings  in  its  strife,  and 
when  at  last  its  passion  died  away 
and  there  followed  a  strange  quiet,  the  two 


THE  RIVER'S  END  3 

men  could  feel  the  frozen  earth  under 
their  feet  shiver  with  the  rumbling  rever 
berations  of  the  crashing  and  breaking 
fields  of  ice  out  in  Hudson's  Bay.  With 
it  came  a  dull  and  steady  roar,  like  the 
incessant  rumble  of  a  far  battle,  broken 
now  and  then — when  an  ice  mountain  split 
asunder — with  a  report  like  that  of  a  six- 
teen-inch  gun.  Down  through  the  Roes 
Welcome  into  Hudson's  Bay  countless  bil 
lions  of  tons  of  ice  were  rending  their  way 
like  Hunnish  armies  in  the  break-up. 

"  You'd  better  lie  down,"  suggested 
Keith. 

Conniston,  instead,  rose  slowly  to  his 
feet  and  went  to  a  table  on  which  a  seal-oil 
lamp  was  burning.  He  swayed  a  little  as 
he  walked.  He  sat  down,  and  Keith  seated 
himself  opposite  him.  Between  them  lay 
a  worn  deck  of  cards.  As  Conniston 
fumbled  them  in  his  fingers,  he  looked 
straight  across  at  Keith  and  grinned. 

"  It's  queer,  devilish  queer,"  he  said. 
"  Don't  you  think  so,  Keith?  "  He  was  an 
Englishman,  and  his  blue  eyes  shone  with 
a  grim,  cold  humor.  "  And  funny,"  he 
added. 


4  THE  RIVER'S  END 

"  Queer,  but  not  funny,"  partly  agreed 
Keith. 

"  Yes,  it  is  funny,"  maintained  Connis- 
ton.  "  Just  twenty-seven  months  ago,  lack 
ing  three  days,  I  was  sent  out  to  get  you, 
Keith.  I  was  told  to  bring  you  in  dead 
or  alive — and  at  the  end  of  the  twenty- 
sixth  month  I  got  you,  alive.  And  as  a 
sporting  proposition  you  deserve  a  hundred 
years  of  life  instead  of  the  noose,  Keith,  for 
you  led  me  a  chase  that  took  me  through 
seven  different  kinds  of  hell  before  I 
landed  you.  I  froze,  and  I  starved,  and  I 
drowned.  I  haven't  seen  a  white  woman's 
face  in  eighteen  months.  It  was  terrible. 
But  I  beat  you  at  last.  That's  the  jolly 
good  part  of  it,  Keith — I  beat  you  and  got 
you,  and  there's  the  proof  of  it  on  your 
wrists  this  minute.  I  won.  Do  you  con 
cede  that?  You  must  be  fair,  old  top, 
because  this  is  the  last  big  game  I'll  ever 
play."  There  was  a  break,  a  yearning  that 
was  almost  plaintive,  in  his  voice. 

Keith  nodded.  "You  won,"  he  said. 
"  You  won  so  square  that  when  the  frost 
got  your  lung— 

"  You  didn't  take  advantage  of  me,"  in- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  5 

terrupted  Conniston.  "  That's  the  funny 
part  of  it,  Keith.  That's  where  the  humor 
comes  in.  I  had  you  all  tied  up  and 
scheduled  for  the  hangman  when — bing! 
— along  comes  a  cold  snap  that  bites  a 
corner  of  my  lung,  and  the  tables  are 
turned.  And  instead  of  doing  to  me  as  I 
was  going  to  do  to  you,  instead  of  killing 
me  or  making  your  getaway  while  I  was 
helpless — Keith — old  pal — you've  tried  to 
nurse  me  back  to  life!  Isn't  that  funny? 
Could  anything  be  funnier?  " 

He  reached  a  hand  across  the  table  and 
gripped  Keith's.  And  then,  for  a  few 
moments,  he  bowed  his  head  while  his 
body  was  convulsed  by  another  racking 
cough.  Keith  sensed  the  pain  of  it  in  the 
convulsive  clutching  of  Conniston's  fingers 
about  his  own.  When  Conniston  raised  his 
face,  the  red  stain  was  on  his  lips  again. 

"  You  see,  I've  got  it  figured  out  to  the 
day,"  he  went  on,  wiping  away  the  stain 
with  a  cloth  already  dyed  red.  "  This  is 
Thursday.  I  won't  see  another  Sunday. 
It'll  come  Friday  night  or  some  time  Sat 
urday.  I've  seen  this  frosted  lung  business 
a  dozen  times.  Understand?  I've  got  two 


6  THE  RIVER'S  END 

sure  days  ahead  of  me,  possibly  a  third. 
Then  you'll  have  to  dig  a  hole  and  bury 
me.  After  that  you  will  no  longer  be  held 
by  the  word  of  honor  you  gave  me  when 
I  slipped  off  your  manacles.  And  I'm  ask 
ing  you — what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

In  Keith's  face  were  written  deeply  the 
lines  of  suffering  and  of  tragedy.  Yester 
day  they  had  compared  ages.  He  was 
thirty-eight,  only  a  little  younger  than  the 
man  who  had  run  him  down  and  who  in 
the  hour  of  his  achievement  was  dying. 
They  had  not  put  the  fact  plainly  before. 
It  had  been  a  matter  of  some  little  embar 
rassment  for  Keith,  who  at  another  time 
had  found  it  easier  to  kill  a  man  than  to 
tell  this  man  that  he  was  going  to  die. 
Now  that  Conniston  had  measured  his  own 
span  definitely  and  with  most  amazing 
coolness,  a  load  was  lifted  from  Keith's 
shoulders.  Over  the  table  they  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes,  and  this  time  it  was 
Keith's  fingers  that  tightened  about  Con- 
niston's.  They  looked  like  brothers  in  the 
sickly  glow  of  the  seal-oil  lamp. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  repeated 
Conniston. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  7 

Keith's    face    aged    even    as    the    dying 
Englishman  stared  at  him.     "  I  suppose— 
I'll  go  back,"  he  said  heavily. 

"  You  mean  to  Coronation  Gulf?  You'll 
return  to  that  stinking  mess  of  Eskimo 
igloos?  If  you  do,  you'll  go  mad!  " 

"  I  expect  to,"  said  Keith.  "  But  it's  the 
only  thing  left.  You  know  that.  You  of 
all  men  must  know  how  they've  hunted  me. 
If  I  went  south- 
It  was  Conniston's  turn  to  nod  his  head, 
slowly  and  thoughtfully.  "  Yes,  of  course," 
he  agreed.  "  They're  hunting  you  hard, 
and  you're  giving  'em  a  bully  chase.  But 
they'll  get  you,  even  up  there.  And  I'm — 
sorry." 

Their  hands  unclasped.  Conniston  filled 
his  pipe  and  lighted  it.  Keith  noticed  that 
he  held  the  lighted  taper  without  a  tremor. 
The  nerve  of  the  man  was  magnificent. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  again.  "  I — like 
you.  Do  you  know,  Keith,  I  wish  we'd 
been  born  brothers  and  you  hadn't  killed  a 
man.  That  night  I  slipped  the  ring-dogs 
on  you  I  felt  almost  like  a  devil.  I 
wouldn't  say  it  if  it  wasn't  for  this  bally 
lung.  But  what's  the  use  of  keeping  it 


8  THE  RIVER'S  END 

back  now?  It  doesn't  seem  fair  to  keep 
a  man  up  in  that  place  for  three  years,  run 
ning  from  hole  to  hole  like  a  rat,  and  then 
take  him  down  for  a  hanging.  I  know  it 
isn't  fair  in  your  case.  I  feel  it.  I  don't 
mean  to  be  inquisitive,  old  chap,  but  I'm 
not  believing  Departmental  *  facts '  any 
more.  I'd  make  a  topping  good  wager 
you're  not  the  sort  they  make  you  out. 
And  so  I'd  like  to  know — just  why — you 
killed  Judge  Kirkstone?" 

Keith's  two  fists  knotted  in  the  center  of 
the  table.  Conniston  saw  his  blue  eyes 
darken  for  an  instant  with  a  savage  fire. 
In  that  moment  there  came  a  strange 
silence  over  the  cabin,  and  in  that  silence 
the  incessant  and  maddening  yapping  of 
the  little  white  foxes  rose  shrilly  over  the 
distant  booming  and  rumbling  of  the  ice. 


II 


'\T7HY  did  I  kill  Judge  Kirkstone?" 
»  V  Keith  repeated  the  words  slowly. 
His  clenched  hands  relaxed,  but  his  eyes 
held  the  steady  glow  of  fire.  "  What  do 
the  Departmental  *  facts '  tell  you,  Con- 
niston?  " 

"  That  you  murdered  him  in  cold  blood, 
and  that  the  honor  of  the  Service  is  at 
stake  until  you  are  hung." 

"  There's  a  lot  in  the  view-point,  isn't 
there?  What  if  I  said  I  didn't  kill  Judge 
Kirkstone?" 

Conniston  leaned  forward  a  little  too 
eagerly.  The  deadly  paroxysm  shook  his 
frame  again,  and  when  it  was  over  has 
breath  came  pantingly,  as  if  hissing 
through  a  sieve.  "  My  God,  not  Sunday 
— or  Saturday,"  he  breathed.  "  Keith,  it's 
coming  tomorrow!" 

"  No,  no,  not  then,"  said  Keith,  choking 
back  something  that  rose  in  his  throat. 
"  You'd  better  lie  down  again," 

9 


io  THE  RIVER'S  END 

Conniston  gathered  new  strength. 
"And  die  like  a  rabbit?  No,  thank  you, 
old  chap!  I'm  after  facts,  and  you  can't 
lie  to  a  dying  man.  Did  you  kill  Judge 
Kirkstone?" 

"  I — don't — know,"  replied  Keith  slowly, 
looking  steadily  into  the  other's  eyes.  "  I 
think  so,  and  yet  I  am  not  positive.  I 
went  to  his  home  that  night  with  the  de 
termination  to  wring  justice  from  him  or 
kill  him.  I  wish  you  could  look  at  it  all 
with  my  eyes,  Conniston.  You  could  if 
you  had  known  my  father.  You  see,  my 
mother  died  when  I  was  a  little  chap,  and 
my  father  and  I  grew  up  together,  chums. 
I  don't  believe  I  ever  thought  of  him  as 
just  simply  a  father.  Fathers  are  common. 
He  was  more  than  that.  From  the  time  I 
was  ten  years  old  we  were  inseparable.  I 
guess  I  was  twenty  before  he  told  me  of 
the  deadly  feud  that  existed  between  him 
and  Kirkstone,  and  it  never  troubled  me 
much — because  I  didn't  think  anything 
would  ever  come  of  it — until  Kirkstone  got 
him.  Then  I  realized  that  all  through  the 
years  the  old  rattlesnake  had  been  watch 
ing  for  his  chance.  It  was  a  frame-up 


THE  RIVER'S  END  11 

from  beginning  to  end,  and  my  father 
stepped  into  the  trap.  Even  then  he 
thought  that  his  political  enemies,  and  not 
Kirkstone,  were  at  the  bottom  of  it  We 
soon  discovered  the  truth.  My  father  got 
ten  years.  He  was  innocent.  And  the  only 
man  on  earth  who  could  prove  his  inno 
cence  was  Kirkstone,  the  man  who  was 
gloating  like  a  Shylock  over  his  pound 
of  flesh.  Conniston,  if  you  had  known 
these  things  and  had  been  in  my  shoes,  what 
would  you  have  done?  " 

Conniston,  lighting  another  taper  over 
the  oil  flame,  hesitated  and  answered :  "  I 
don't  know  yet,  old  chap.  What  did  you 
do?" 

"  I  fairly  got  down  on  my  knees  to  the 
scoundrel,"  resumed  Keith.  "  If  ever  a 
man  begged  for  another  man's  life,  I 
begged  for  my  father's — for  the  few  words 
from  Kirkstone  that  would  set  him  free. 
I  offered  everything  I  had  in  the  world, 
even  my  body  and  soul.  God,  I'll  never 
forget  that  night!  He  sat  there,  fat  and 
oily,  two  big  rings  on  his  stubby  fingers — 
a  monstrous  toad  in  human  form — and  he 
chuckled  and  laughed  at  me  in  his  joy,  as 


12  THE  RIVER'S  END 

though  I  were  a  mountebank  playing 
amusing  tricks  for  him — and  there  my  soul 
was  bleeding  itself  out  before  his  eyes! 
And  his  son  came  in,  fat  and  oily  and  ac 
cursed  like  his  father,  and  he  laughed  at 
me.  I  didn't  know  that  such  hatred  could 
exist  in  the  world,  or  that  vengeance  could 
bring  such  hellish  joy.  I  could  still  hear 
their  gloating  laughter  when  I  stumbled 
out  into  the  night.  It  haunted  me.  I 
heard  it  in  the  trees.  It  came  in  the  wind. 
My  brain  was  filled  with  it — and  suddenly 
I  turned  back,  and  I  went  into  that  house 
again  without  knocking,  and  I  faced  the 
two  of  them  alone  once  more  in  that  room. 
And  this  time,  Conniston,  I  went  back  to 
get  justice — or  to  kill.  Thus  far  it  was 
premeditated,  but  I  went  with  my  naked 
hands.  There  was  a  key  in  the  door,  and 
I  locked  it.  Then  I  made  my  demand.  I 
wasted  no  words " 

Keith  rose  from  the  table  and  began  to 
pace  back  and  forth.  The  wind  had  died 
again.  They  could  hear  the  yapping  of  the 
foxes  and  the  low  thunder  of  the  ice. 

"  The  son  began  it,"  said  Keith.     "  He 


THE  RIVER'S  END  13 

sprang  at  me.  I  struck  him.  We  grap 
pled,  and  then  the  beast  himself  leaped  at 
me  with  some  sort  of  weapon  in  his  hand. 
I  couldn't  see  what  it  was,  but  it  was  heavy. 
The  first  blow  almost  broke  my  shoulder. 
In  the  scuffle  I  wrenched  it  from  his  hand, 
and  then  I  found  it  was  a  long,  rectangular 
bar  of  copper  made  for  a  paper-weight. 
In  that  same  instant  I  saw  the  son  snatch 
up  a  similar  object  from  the  table,  and  in 
the  act  he  smashed  the  table  light.  In 
darkness  we  fought.  I  did  not  feel  that  I 
was  fighting  men.  They  were  monsters 
and  gave  me  the  horrible  sensation  of  be 
ing  in  darkness  with  crawling  serpents. 
Yes,  I  struck  hard.  And  the  son  was 
striking,  and  neither  of  us  could  see.  I  felt 
my  weapon  hit,  and  it  was  then  that  Kirk- 
stone  crumpled  down  with  a  blubbery 
wheeze.  You  know  what  happened  after 
that.  The  next  morning  only  one  copper 
weight  was  found  in  that  room.  The  son 
had  done  away  with  the  other.  And  the 
one  that  was  left  was  covered  with  Kirk- 
stone's  blood  and  hair.  There  was  no 
chance  for  me.  So  I  got  away.  Six 


.14  THE  RIVER'S  END 

months  later  my  father  died  in  prison,  and 
for  three  years  I've  been  hunted  as  a  fox 
is  hunted  by  the  hounds.  That's  all,  Con- 
niston.  Did  I  kill  Judge  Kirkstone? 
And,  if  I  killed  him,  do  you  think  I'm 
sorry  for  it,  even  though  I  hang?  " 

"Sit  down!" 

The  Englishman's  voice  was  command 
ing.  Keith  dropped  back  to  his  seat, 
breathing  hard.  He  saw  a  strange  light 
in  the  steely  blue  eyes  of  Conniston. 

"  Keith,  when  a  man  knows  he's  going 
to  live,  he  is  blind  to  a  lot  of  things.  But 
when  he  knows  he's  going  to  die,  it's  dif 
ferent.  If  you  had  told  me  that  story  a 
month  ago,  I'd  have  taken  you  down  to 
the  hangman  just  the  same.  It  would  have 
been  my  duty,  you  know,  and  I  might  have 
argued  you  were  lying.  But  you  can't  lie 
to  me — now.  Kirkstone  deserved  to  die. 
And  so  I've  made  up  my  mind  what  you're 
going  to  do.  You're  not  going  back  to 
Coronation  Gulf.  You're  going  south. 
You're  going  back  into  God's  country 
again.  And  you're  not  going  as  John 
Keith,  the  murderer,  but  as  Derwent  Con 
niston  of  His  Majesty's  Royal  Northwest 


THE  RIVER'S  END  15 

Mounted  Police!  Do  you  get  me,  Keith? 
Do  you  understand?  " 

Keith  simply  stared.  The  Englishman 
twisted  a  mustache,  a  half-humorous  gleam 
in  his  eyes.  He  had  been  thinking  of  this 
plan  of  his  for  some  time,  and  he  had 
foreseen  just  how  it  would  take  Keith  off 
his  feet. 

"  Quite  a  scheme,  don't  you  think,  old 
chap?  I  like  you.  I  don't  mind  saying 
I  think  a  lot  of  you,  and  there  isn't  any 
reason  on  earth  why  you  shouldn't  go  on 
living  in  my  shoes.  There's  no  moral  ob 
jection.  No  one  will  miss  me.  I  was  the 
black  sheep  back  in  England — younger 
brother  and  all  that — and  when  I  had  to 
choose  between  Africa  and  Canada,  I  chose 
Canada.  An  Englishman's  pride  is  the 
biggest  fool  thing  on  earth,  Keith,  and  I 
suppose  all  of  them  over  there  think  I'm 
dead.  They  haven't  heard  from  me  in  six 
or  seven  years.  I'm  forgotten.  And  the 
beautiful  thing  about  this  scheme  is  that 
we  look  so  deucedly  alike,  you  know. 
Trim  that  mustache  and  beard  of  yours  a 
little,  add  a  bit  of  a  scar  over  your  right 
eye,  and  you  can  walk  in  on  old  McDowell 


16  THE  RIVER'S  END 

himself,  and  I'll  wager  he'll  jump  up  and 
say,  '  Bless  my  heart,  if  it  isn't  Conniston! ' 
That's  all  I've  got  to  leave  you,  Keith,  a 
dead  man's  clothes  and  name.  But  you're 
welcome.  They'll  be  of  no  more  use  to  me 
after  tomorrow." 

"  Impossible!  "  gasped  Keith.  "  Connis 
ton,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?  " 

"  Positively,  old  chap.  I  count  every 
word,  because  it  hurts  when  I  talk.  So 
you  won't  argue  with  me,  please.  It's  thj 
biggest  sporting  thing  that's  ever  come  my 
way.  I'll  be  dead.  You  can  bury  me 
under  this  floor,  where  the  foxes  can't 
get  at  me.  But  my  name  will  go  on  living 
and  you'll  wear  my  clothes  back  to  civi 
lization  and  tell  McDowell  how  you  got 
your  man  and  how  he  died  up  here  with 
a  frosted  lung.  As  proof  of  it  you'll  lug 
your  own  clothes  down  in  a  bundle  along 
with  any  other  little  identifying  things  you 
may  have,  and  there's  a  sergeancy  waiting. 
McDowell  promised  it  to  you — if  you  got 
your  man.  Understand?  And  McDowell 
hasn't  seen  me  for  two  years  and  three 
months,  so  if  I  might  look  a  bit  different 
to  him,  it  would  be  natural,  for  you  and  I 


THE  RIVER'S  END  17 

have  been  on  the  rough  edge  of  the  world 
all  that  time.  The  jolly  good  part  of  it 
all  is  that  we  look  so  much  alike.  I  say 
the  idea  is  splendid!  " 

Conniston  rose  above  the  presence  of 
death  in  the  thrill  of  the  great  gamble  he 
was  projecting.  And  Keith,  whose  heart 
was  pounding  like  an  excited  fist,  saw  in  a 
flash  the  amazing  audacity  of  the  thing 
that  was  in  Conniston's  mind,  and  felt  the 
responsive  thrill  of  its  possibilities.  No 
fcnie  down  there  would  recognize  in  him 
the  John  Keith  of  four  years  ago.  Then 
he  was  smooth-faced,  with  shoulders  that 
stooped  a  little  and  a  body  that  was  not 
too  strong.  Now  he  wras  an  animal!  A 
four  years'  fight  with  the  raw  things  of 
life  had  made  him  that,  and  inch  for  inch 
he  measured  up  with  Conniston.  And 
Conniston,  sitting  opposite  him,  looked 
enough  like  him  to  be  a  twin  brother.  He 
seemed  to  read  the  thought  in  Keith's 
mind.  There  was  an  amused  glitter  in  his 
eyes. 

"  I  suppose  it's  largely  because  of  the 
hair  on  our  faces,"  he  said.  "  You  know 
a  beard  can  cover  a  multitude  of  physical 


:i8  THE  RIVER'S  END 

sins — and  differences,  old  chap.  I  wore 
mine  two  years  before  I  started  out  after 
you,  vandyked  rather  carefully,  you  under 
stand,  so  you'd  better  not  use  a  razor. 
Physically  you  won't  run  a  ghost  of  a 
chance  of  being  caught.  You'll  look  the 
part.  The  real  fun  is  coming  in  other 
ways.  In  the  next  twenty-four  hours 
you've  got  to  learn  by  heart  the  history  of 
Derwent  Conniston  from  the  day  he 
joined  the  Royal  Mounted.  We  won't  go 
back  further  than  that,  for  it  wouldn't 
interest  you,  and  ancient  history  won't 
turn  up  to  trouble  you.  Your  biggest 
danger  will  be  with  McDowell,  command 
ing  F  Division  at  Prince  Albert.  He's  a 
human  fox  of  the  old  military  school,  mus 
taches  and  all,  and  he  can  see  through 
boiler-plate.  But  he's  got  a  big  heart. 
He  has  been  a  good  friend  of  mine,  so 
along  with  Derwent  Conniston's  story 
you've  got  to  load  up  with  a  lot  about 
McDowell,  too.  There  are  many  things— 

oh,  God " 

He  flung  a  hand  to  his  chest.  Grim 
horror  settled  in  the  little  cabin  as  the 
cough  convulsed  him.  And  over  it  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  19 

wind  shrieked  again,  swallowing  up  the 
yapping  of  the  foxes  and  the  rumble  of 
the  ice. 

That  night,  in  the  yellow  sputter  of  the 
seal-oil  lamp,  the  fight  began.  Grim-faced 
—one  realizing  the  nearness  of  death  and 
struggling  to  hold  it  back,  the  other  pray 
ing  for  time — two  men  went  through  the 
amazing  process  of  trading  their  identities. 
From  the  beginning  it  was  Conniston's 
light.  And  Keith,  looking  at  him,  knew 
that  in  this  last  mighty  effort  to  die  game 
the  Englishman  was  narrowing  the  slight 
margin  of  hours  ahead  of  him.  Keith  had 
""o'ved  but  one  man,  his  father.  In  this 
fight  he  learned  to  love  another,  Connis- 
ton.  And  once  he  cried  out  bitterly  that 
it  was  unfair,  that  Conniston  should  live 
and  he  should  die.  The  dying  Englishman 
smiled  and  laid  a  hand  on  his,  and  Keith 
felt  that  the  hand  was  damp  with  a  cold 
sweat. 

Through  the  terrible  hours  that  fol 
lowed  Keith  felt  the  strength  and  courage 
of  the  dying  man  becoming  slowly  a  part 
of  himself.  The  thing  was  epic.  Con 
niston,  throttling  his  own  agony,  was  mag- 


20  THE  RIVER'S  END 

nificent.  And  Keith  felt  his  warped  and 
despairing  soul  swelling  with  a  new  life 
and  a  new  hope,  and  he  was  thrilled  by 
the  thought  of  what  he  must  do  to  live  up 
to  the  mark  of  the  Englishman.  Connis- 
ton's  story  was  of  the  important  things 
first.  It  began  with  his  acquaintance  with 
McDowell.  And  then,  between  the 
paroxysms  that  stained  his  lips  red,  he 
filled  in  with  incident  and  smiled  wanly  as 
he  told  how  McDowell  had  sworn  him  to 
secrecy  once  in  the  matter  of  an  incident 
which  the  chief  did  not  want  the  barracks 
to  know — and  laugh  over.  A  very  sensi 
tive  man  in  some  ways  was  McDowell! 
At  the  end  of  the  first  hour  Keith  stood  up 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  with  his 
arms  resting  on  the  table  and  his  shoulders 
sagging  Conniston  put  him  through  the 
drill.  After  that  he  gave  Keith  his  worn 
Service  Manual  and  commanded  him  to 
study  while  he  rested.  Keith  helped  him 
to  his  bunk,  and  for  a  time  after  that  tried 
to  read  the  Service  book.  But  his  eyes 
blurred,  and  his  brain  refused  to  obey. 
The  agony  in  the  Englishman's  low  breath 
ing  oppressed  him  with  a  physical  pain. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  21 

Keith  felt  himself  choking  and  rose  at  last 
from  the  table  and  went  out  into  the  gray, 
ghostly  twilight  of  the  night. 

His  lungs  drank  in  the  ice-tanged  air. 
But  it  was  not  cold.  Kwaske-hoo — the 
change — had  come.  The  air  was  filled 
with  the  tumult  of  the  last  fight  of  winter 
against  the  invasion  of  spring,  and  the 
forces  of  winter  were  crumbling.  The 
earth  under  Keith's  feet  trembled  in  the 
mighty  throes  of  their  dissolution.  He 
could  hear  more  clearly  the  roar  and  snarl 
and  rending  thunder  of  the  great  fields  of 
ice  as  they  swept  down  with  the  arctic 
current  into  Hudson's  Bay.  Over  him 
hovered  a  strange  night.  It  was  not  black 
but  a  weird  and  wraith-like  gray,  and  out 
of  this  sepulchral  chaos  came  strange 
sounds  and  the  moaning  of  a  wind  high 
up.  A  little  while  longer,  Keith  thought, 
and  the  thing  would  have  driven  him  mad. 
Even  now  he  fancied  he  heard  the  scream 
ing  and  wailing  of  voices  far  up  under  the 
hidden  stars.  More  than  once  in  the  past 
months  he  had  listened  to  the  sobbing  of 
little  children,  the  agony  of  weeping 
women,  and  the  taunting  of  wind  voices 


22  THE  RIVER'S  END 

that  were  either  tormenting  or  crying  out 
in  a  ghoulish  triumph;  and  more  than  once 
in  those  months  he  had  seen  Eskimos- 
born  in  that  hell  but  driven  mad  in  the 
torture  of  its  long  night — rend  the  clothes 
from  their  bodies  and  plunge  naked  out 
into  the  pitiless  gloom  and  cold  to  die. 
Conniston  would  never  know  how  near  the 
final  breakdown  his  brain  had  been  in  that 
hour  when  he  made  him  a  prisoner.  And 
Keith  had  not  told  him.  The  man-hunter 
had  saved  him  from  going  mad.  But 
Keith  had  kept  that  secret  to  himself. 

Even  now  he  shrank  down  as  a  blast  of 
wind  shot  out  of  the  chaos  above  and 
smote  the  cabin  with  a  shriek  that  had  in 
it  a  peculiarly  penetrating  note.  And  then 
he  squared  his  shoulders  and  laughed,  and 
the  yapping  of  the  foxes  no  longer  filled 
him  with  a  shuddering  torment.  Beyond 
them  he  was  seeing  home.  God's  country! 
Green  forests  and  waters  spattered  with 
golden  sun — things  he  had  almost  forgot 
ten;  once  more  the  faces  of  women  who 
were  white.  And  with  those  faces  he 
heard  the  voice  of  his  people  and  the  song 
of  birds  and  felt  under  his  feet  the  velvety 


THE  RIVER'S  END  23 

touch  of  earth  that  was  bathed  in  the  aroma 
of  flowers.  Yes,  he  had  almost  forgotten 
those  things.  Yesterday  they  had  been 
with  him  only  as  moldering  skeletons- 
phantasmal  dream-things — because  he  was 
going  mad,  but  now  they  were  real,  they 
were  just  off  there  to  the  south,  and  he  was 
going  to  them.  He  stretched  up  his  arms, 
and  a  cry  rose  out  of  his  throat.  It  was 
of  triumph,  of  final  exaltation.  Three 
years  of  that — and  he  had  lived  through 
it!  Three  years  of  dodging  from  burrow 
to  burrow,  just  as  Conniston  had  said,  like 
a  hunted  fox;  three  years  of  starvation,  of 
freezing,  of  loneliness  so  great  that  his  soul 
had  broken — and  now  he  was  going  home! 

He  turned  again  to  the  cabin,  and  when 
he  entered  the  pale  face  of  the  dying  Eng 
lishman  greeted  him  from  the  dim  glow 
of  the  yellow  light  at  the  table.  And  Con 
niston  was  smiling  in  a  quizzical,  distressed 
sort  of  way,  with  a  hand  at  his  chest.  His 
open  watch  on  the  table  pointed  to  the 
hour  of  midnight  when  the  lesson  went  on. 

Still  later  he  heated  the  muzzle  of  his 
revolver  in  the  flame  of  the  seal-oil. 

"  It  will    hurt,    old    chap — putting    this 


24  THE  RIVER'S  END 

scar  over  your  eye.  But  it's  got  to  be  done. 
I  say,  won't  it  be  a  ripping  joke  on  Mc 
Dowell?"  Softly  he  repeated  it,  smiling 
into  Keith's  eyes.  "  A  ripping  joke — on 
McDowell!"  " 


Ill 


DAWN — the  dusk  of  another  night — 
and  Keith  raised  his  haggard  face 
from  Conniston's  bedside  with  a  woman's 
sob  on  his  lips.  The  Englishman  had  died 
as  he  knew  that  he  would  die,  game  to  the 
last  threadbare  breath  that  came  out  of  his 
body.  For  with  this  last  breath  he  whis 
pered  the  words  which  he  had  repeated  a 
dozen  times  before,  "  Remember,  old  chap, 
you  win  or  lose  the  moment  McDowell 
first  sets  his  eyes  on  you! "  And  then,  with 
a  strange  kind  of  sob  in  his  chest,  he  was 
gone,  and  Keith's  eyes  were  blinded  by  the 
miracle  of  a  hot  flood  of  tears,  and  there 
rose  in  him  a  mighty  pride  in  the  name  of 
Derwent  Conniston. 

It  was  his  name  now.  John  Keith  was 
dead.  It  was  Derwent  Conniston  who  was 
living.  And  as  he  looked  down  into  the 
cold,  still  face  of  the  heroic  Englishman, 
the  thing  did  not  seem  so  strange  to  him 

25 


26  THE  RIVER'S  END 

after  all.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  bear 
Conniston's  name;  the  difficulty  would  be 
in  living  up  to  the  Conniston  code. 

That  night  the  rumble  of  the  ice  fields 
was  clearer  because  there  was  no  wind  to 
deaden  their  tumult.  The  sky  was  cloud 
less,  and  the  stars  were  like  glaring,  yellow 
eyes  peering  through  holes  in  a  vast,  over 
hanging  curtain  of  jet  black.  Keith,  out 
to  fill  his  lungs  with  air,  looked  up  at  the 
phenomenon  of  the  polar  night  and  shud 
dered.  The  stars  were  like  living  things, 
and  they  were  looking  at  him.  Under 
their  sinister  glow  the  foxes  were  holding 
high  carnival.  It  seemed  to  Keith  that 
they  had  drawn  a  closer  circle  about  the 
cabin  and  that  there  was  a  different  note 
in  their  yapping  now,  a  note  that  was  more 
persistent,  more  horrible.  Conniston  had 
foreseen  that  closing-in  of  the  little  white 
beasts  of  the  night,  and  Keith,  reentering 
the  cabin,  set  about  the  fulfillment  of  his 
promise.  Ghostly  dawn  found  his  task 
completed. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  stood  in  the  edge 
of  the  scrub  timber  that  rimmed  in  the 
arctic  plain,  and  looked  for  tbe  last  time 


THE  RIVER'S  END  27 

upon  the  little  cabin  under  the  floor  of 
which  the  Englishman  was  buried.  It 
stood  there  splendidly  unafraid  in  its  ter 
rible  loneliness,  a  proud  monument  to  a 
dead  man's  courage  and  a  dead  man's 
soul.  Within  its  four  walls  it  treasured  a 
thing  which  gave  to  it  at  last  a  reason  for 
being,  a  reason  for  fighting  against  disso 
lution  as  long  as  one  log  could  hold  upon 
another.  Conniston's  spirit  had  become  a 
living  part  of  it,  and  the  foxes  might  yap 
everlastingly,  and  the  winds  howl,  and 
winter  follow  winter,  and  long  night  fol 
low  long  night — and  it  would  stand  there 
in  its  pride  righting  to  the  .last,  a  memorial 
to  Derwent  Conniston,  the  Englishman. 

Looking  back  at  it,  Keith  bared  his  head 
in  the  raw  dawn.  "  God  bless  you,  Con 
niston,"  he  whispered,  and  turned  slowly 
away  and  into  the  south. 

Ahead  of  him  was  eight  hundred  miles 
of  wilderness — eight  hundred  miles  be 
tween  him  and  the  little  town  on  the  Sas 
katchewan  where  McDowell  commanded 
F  Division  of  the  Royal  Mounted.  The 
thought  of  distance  did  not  appal  him. 
Four  years  at  the  top  of  the  earth  had  ac- 


28  THE  RIVER'S  END 

customed  him  to  the  illimitable  and  had 
inured  him  to  the  lack  of  things.  That 
winter  Conniston  had  followed  him  with 
the  tenacity  of  a  ferret  for  a  thousand  miles 
along  the  rim  of  the  Arctic,  and  it  had 
been  a  miracle  that  he  had  not  killed  the 
Englishman.  A  score  of  times  he  might 
have  ended  the  exciting  chase  without 
staining  his  own  hands.  His  Eskimo 
friends  would  have  performed  the  deed  at 
a  word.  But  he  had  let  the  Englishman 
live,  and  Conniston,  dead,  was  sending  him 
back  home.  Eight  hundred  miles  was  but 
the  step  between. 

He  had  no  dogs  or  sledge.  His  own 
team  had  given  up  the  ghost  long  ago,  and 
a  treacherous  Kogmollock  from  the  Roes 
Welcome  had  stolen  the  Englishman's  out 
fit  in  the  last  lap  of  their  race  down  from 
Fullerton's  Point.  What  he  carried  was 
Conniston's,  with  the  exception  of  his  rifle 
and  his  own  parka  and  hood.  He  even 
wore  Conniston's  watch.  His  pack  was 
light.  The  chief  articles  it  contained  were 
a  little  flour,  a  three-pound  tent,  a  sleep 
ing-bag,  and  certain  articles  of  identifica 
tion  to  prove  the  death  of  John  Keith,  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  29 

outlaw.  Hour  after  hour  of  that  first  day 
the  zip,  zip,  zip  of  his  snowshoes  beat  with 
deadly  monotony  upon  his  brain.  He 
could  not  think.  Time  and  again  it 
seemed  to  him  that  something  was  pulling 
him  back,  and  always  he  was  hearing  Con- 
niston's  voice  and  seeing  Conniston's  face 
in  the  gray  gloom  of  the  day  about  him. 
He  passed  through  the  slim  finger  of  scrub 
timber  that  a  strange  freak  of  nature  had 
flung  across  the  plain,  and  once  more  was  a 
moving  speck  in  a  wide  and  wind-swept 
barren.  In  the  afternoon  he  made  out  a 
dark  rim  on  the  southern  horizon  and 
knew  it  was  timber,  real  timber,  the  first 
he  had  seen  since  that  day,  a  year  and  a 
half  ago,  when  the  last  of  the  Mackenzie 
River  forest  had  faded  away  behind  him! 
It  gave  him,  at  last,  something  tangible  to 
grip.  It  was  a  thing  beckoning  to  him,  a 
sentient,  living  wall  beyond  which  was  his 
other  world.  The  eight  hundred  miles 
meant  less  to  him  than  the  space  between 
himself  and  that  growing,  black  rim  on  the 
horizon. 

He  reached  it  as  the  twilight  of  the  day 
was  dissolving  into  the  deeper  dusk  of  the 


30  THE  RIVER'S  END 

night,  and  put  up  his  tent  in  the  shelter 
of  a  clump  of  gnarled  and  storm-beaten 
spruce.  Then  he  gathered  wood  and  built 
himself  a  fire.  He  did  not  count  the  sticks 
as  he  had  counted  them  for  eighteen 
months.  He  was  wasteful,  prodigal.  He 
had  traveled  forty  miles  since  morning  but 
he  felt  no  exhaustion.  He  gathered  wood 
until  he  had  a  great  pile  of  it,  and  the 
flames  of  his  fire  leaped  higher  and  higher 
until  the  spruce  needles  crackled  and 
hissed  over  his  head.  He  boiled  a  pot  of 
weak  tea  and  made  a  supper  of  caribou 
meat  and  a  bit  of  bannock.  Then  he  sat 
with  his  back  to  a  tree  and  stared  into 
the  flames. 

The  fire  leaping  and  crackling  before 
his  eyes  was  like  a  powerful  medicine.  It 
stirred  things  that  had  lain  dormant  within 
him.  It  consumed  the  heavy  dross  of  four 
years  of  stupefying  torture  and  brought 
back  to  him  vividly  the  happenings  of  a 
yesterday  that  had  dragged  itself  on  like 
a  century.  All  at  once  he  seemed  un 
burdened  of  shackles  that  had  weighted 
him  down  to  the  point  of  madness.  Every 
fiber  in  his  body  responded  to  that  glorious 


THE  RIVER'S  END  31 

roar  of  the  fire;  a  thing  seemed  to  snap  in 
his  head,  freeing  it  of  an  oppressive  bond 
age,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  flames  he  saw 
home,  and  hope,  and  life — the  things 
familiar  and  precious  long  ago,  which  the 
scourge  of  the  north  had  almost  beaten 
dead  in  his  memory.  He  saw  the  broad 
Saskatchewan  shimmering  its  way  through 
the  yellow  plains,  banked  in  by  the  foot 
hills  and  the  golden  mists  of  morning 
dawn;  he  saw  his  home  town  clinging  to 
its  shore  on  one  side  and  with  its  back 
against  the  purple  wilderness  on  the  other; 
he  heard  the  rhythmic  chug,  chug,  chug 
of  the  old  gold  dredge  and  the  rattle  of 
its  chains  as  it  devoured  its  tons  of  sand 
for  a  few  grains  of  treasure;  over  him 
there  were  lacy  clouds  in  a  blue  heaven 
again,  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices,  the 
tread  of  feet,  laughter — life.  His  soul 
reborn,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stretched 
his  arms  until  the  muscles  snapped.  No, 
they  would  not  know  him  back  there — 
now!  He  laughed  softly  as  he  thought 
of  the  old  John  Keith — "Johnny"  they 
used  to  call  him  up  and  down  the  few 
balsam-scented  streets — his  father's  right- 


32  THE  RIVER'S  END 

hand  man  mentally  but  a  little  off  feed,  as 
his  chum,  Reddy  McTabb,  used  to  say, 
when  it  came  to  the  matter  of  muscle  and 
brawn.  He  could  look  back  on  things 
without  excitement  now.  Even  hatred 
had  burned  itself  out,  and  he  found  him 
self  wondering  if  old  Judge  Kirkstone's 
house  looked  the  same  on  the  top  of  the 
hill,  and  if  Miriam  Kirkstone  had  come 
back  to  live  there  after  that  terrible  night 
when  he  had  returned  to  avenge  his  father. 
Four  years!  It  was  not  so  very  long, 
though  the  years  had  seemed  like  a  life 
time  to  him.  There  would  not  be  many 
changes.  Everything  would  be  the  same — 
everything — except — the  old  home.  That 
home  he  and  his  father  had  planned,  and 
they  had  overseen  the  building  of  it,  a 
chateau  of  logs  a  little  distance  from  the 
town,  with  the  Saskatchewan  sweeping  be 
low  it  and  the  forest  at  its  doors.  Master- 
less,  it  must  have  seen  changes  in  those 
four  years. 

Fumbling  in  his  pocket,  his  ringers 
touched  Conniston's  watch.  He  drew  it 
out  and  let  the  firelight  play  on  the  open 
dial.  It  was  ten  o'clock.  In  the  back  of 


THE  RIVER'S  END  33 

the  premier  half  of  the  case  Ccnniston  had 
at  some  time  or  another  pasted  a  picture. 
It  must  have  been  a  long  time  ago,  for  the 
face  was  faded  and  indistinct.  The  eyes 
alone  were  undimmed,  and  in  the  flash  of 
the  fire  they  took  on  a  living  glow  as  they 
looked  at  Keith.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
young  girl — a  schoolgirl,  Keith  thought,  of 
ten  or  twelve.  Yet  the  eyes  seemed  older; 
they  seemed  pleading  with  someone,  speak 
ing  a  message  that  had  come  spontaneously 
out  of  the  soul  of  the  child.  Keith  closed 
the  watch.  Its  tick,  tick,  tick  rose  louder 
to  his  ears.  He  dropped  it  in  his  pocket. 
He  could  still  hear  it. 

A  pitch-filled  spruce  knot  exploded  with 
the  startling  vividness  of  a  star  bomb,  and 
with  it  came  a  dull  sort  of  mental  shock  to 
Keith.  He  was  sure  that  for  an  instant 
he  had  seen  Conniston's  face  and  that  the 
Englishman's  eyes  were  looking  at  him  as 
the  eyes  had  looked  at  him  out  of  the  face 
in  the  watch.  The  deceptio  visus  was  so 
real  that  it  sent  him  back  a  step,  staring, 
and  then,  his  eyes  striving  to  catch  the  il 
lusion  again,  there  fell  upon  him  a  realiza 
tion  of  the  tremendous  strain  he  had  been 


34  THE  RIVER'S  END 

under  for  many  hours.  It  had  been  days 
since  he  had  slept  soundly.  Yet  he  was 
not  sleepy  now;  he  scarcely  felt  fatigue. 
The  instinct  of  self-preservation  made  him 
arrange  his  sleeping-bag  on  a  carpet  of 
spruce  boughs  in  the  tent  and  go  to 
bed. 

Even  then,  for  a  long  time,  he  lay  in 
the  grip  of  a  harrowing  wakefulness.  He 
closed  his  eyes,  but  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  hold  them  closed.  The  sounds  of 
the  night  came  to  him  with  painful  dis 
tinctness — the  crackling  of  the  fire,  the  ser 
pent-like  hiss  of  the  flaming  pitch,  the 
whispering  of  the  tree  tops,  and  the  steady 
tick,  tick,  tick  of  Conniston's  watch.  And 
out  on  the  barren,  through  the  rim  of  shel 
tering  trees,  the  wind  was  beginning  to 
moan  its  everlasting  whimper  and  sob  of 
loneliness.  In  spite  of  his  clenched  hands 
and  his  fighting  determination  to  hold  it 
off,  Keith  fancied  that  he  heard  again- 
riding  strangely  in  that  wind — the  sound 
of  Conniston's  voice.  And  suddenly  he 
asked  himself:  What  did  it  mean?  What 
was  it  that  Conniston  had  forgotten? 
What  was  it  that  Conniston  had  been  try- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  ,          35 

ing  to  tell  him  all  that  day,  when  he  had 
felt  the  presence  of  him  in  the  gloom  of 
the  Barrens?  Was  it  that  Conniston 
wanted  him  to  come  back? 

He  tried  to  rid  himself  of  the  depress 
ing  insistence  of  that  thought.  And  yet 
he  was  certain  that  in  the  last  half-hour 
before  death  entered  the  cabin  the  Eng 
lishman  had  wanted  to  tell  him  something 
and  had  crucified  the  desire.  There  was 
the  triumph  of  an  iron  courage  in  those 
last  words,  "  Remember,  old  chap,  you  win 
or  lose  the  moment  McDowell  first  sets  his 
eyes  on  you! "  —but  in  the  next  instant,  as 
death  sent  home  its  thrust,  Keith  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Conniston's  naked 
soul,  and  in  that  final  moment  when  speech 
was  gone  forever,  he  knew  that  Conniston 
was  fighting  to  make  his  lips  utter  words 
which  he  had  left  unspoken  until  too  late. 
And  Keith,  listening  to  the  moaning  of 
the  wind  and  the  crackling  of  the  fire, 
found  himself  repeating  over  and  over 
again,  "  What  was  it  he  wanted  to  say?  " 

In  a  lull  in  the  wind  Conniston's  watch 
seemed  to  beat  like  a  heart  in  its  case,  and 
svriftly  its  tick,  tick,  ticked  to  his  ears  a« 


36  THE  RIVER'S  END 

answer,  "  Come  back,  come  back,  come 
back!" 

With  a  cry  at  his  own  pitiable  weakness, 
Keith  thrust  the  thing  far  under  his  sleep 
ing-bag,  and  there  its  sound  was  smothered. 
At  last  sleep  overcame  him  like  a  restless 
anesthesia. 

With  the  break  of  another  day  he  came 
out  of  his  tent  and  stirred  the  fire.  There 
were  still  bits  of  burning  ember,  and  these 
he  fanned  into  life  and  added  to  their 
flame  fresh  fuel.  He  could  not  easily  for 
get  last  night's  torture,  but  its  significance 
was  gone.  He  laughed  at  his  own  folly 
and  wondered  what  Conniston  himself 
would  have  thought  of  his  nervousness. 
For  the  first  time  in  years  he  thought  of 
the  old  days  down  at  college  where,  among 
other  things,  he  had  made  a  mark  for 
himself  in  psychology.  He  had  considered 
himself  an  expert  in  the  discussion  and 
understanding  of  phenomena  of  the  mind. 
Afterward  he  had  lived  up  to  the  mark 
and  had  profited  by  his  beliefs,  and  the 
fact  that  a  simple  relaxation  of  his  mental 
machinery  had  so  disturbed  him  last  night 
amused  him  now.  The  solution  was  easy. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  37 

It  was  his  mind  struggling  to  equilibrium 
after  four  years  of  brain-fag.  And  he  felt 
better.  His  brain  was  clearer.  He  lis 
tened  to  the  watch  and  found  its  ticking 
natural.  He  braced  himself  to  another 
effort  and  whistled  as  he  prepared  his 
breakfast. 

After  that  he  packed  his  dunnage  and 
continued  south.  He  wondered  if  Con- 
niston  ever  knew  his  Manual  as  he  learned 
it  now.  At  the  end  of  the  sixth  day  he 
could  repeat  it  from  cover  to  cover.  Every 
hour  he  made  it  a  practice  to  stop  short 
and  salute  the  trees  about  him.  McDowell 
would  not  catch  him  there. 

"  I  am  Derwent  Conniston,"  he  kept  tell 
ing  himself.  "  John  Keith  is  dead — dead. 
I  buried  him  back  there  under  the  cabin, 
the  cabin  built  by  Sergeant  Trossy  and  his 
patrol  in  nineteen  hundred  and  eight.  My 
name  is  Conniston — Derwent  Conniston." 

In  his  years  of  aloneness  he  had  grown 
into  the  habit  of  talking  to  himself — or 
with  himself — to  keep  up  his  courage  and 
sanity.  "  Keith,  old  boy,  we've  got  to  fight 
it  out,"  he  would  say.  Now  it  was,  "  Con 
niston,  old  chap,  we'll  win  or  die."  After 


38  THE  RIVER'S  END 

the  third  day,  he  never  spoke  of  Joh» 
Keith  except  as  a  man  who  was  dead.  And 
over  the  dead  John  Keith  he  spread  Con- 
niston's  mantle.  "  John  Keith  died  game, 
sir,"  he  said  to  McDowell,  who  was  a  tree. 
"  He  was  the  finest  chap  I  ever  knew." 

On  this  sixth  day  came  the  miracle.  For 
the  first  time  in  many  months  John  Keith 
saw  the  sun.  He  had  seen  the  murky  glow 
of  it  before  this,  fighting  to  break  through 
the  pall  of  fog  and  haze  that  hung  over 
the  Barrens,  but  this  sixth  day  it  was  the 
sun,  the  real  sun,  bursting  in  all  its  glory 
for  a  short  space  over  the  northern  world. 
Each  day  after  this  the  sun  was  nearer  and 
warmer,  as  the  arctic  vapor  clouds  and 
frost  smoke  were  left  farther  behind,  and 
not  until  he  had  passed  beyond  the  ice  fogs 
entirely  did  Keith  swing  westward.  He 
did  not  hurry,  for  now  that  he  was  out  of 
his  prison,  he  wanted  time  in  which  to  feel 
the  first  exhilarating  thrill  of  his  freedom. 
And  more  than  all  else  he  knew  that  he 
must  measure  and  test  himself  for  the  tre 
mendous  fight  ahead  of  him. 

Now  that  the  sun  and  the  blue  sky  had 
cleared  his  brain,  he  saw  the  hundred  pit- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  39 

falls  in  his  way,  the  hundred  little  slips 
that  might  be  made,  the  hundred  traps 
waiting  for  any  chance  blunder  on  his 
part.  Deliberately  he  was  on  his  way  to 
the  hangman.  Down  there — every  day  of 
his  life — he  would  rub  elbows  with  him  as 
he  passed  his  fellow  men  in  the  street.  He 
would  never  completely  feel  himself  out 
of  the  presence  of  death.  Day  and  night 
he  must  watch  himself  and  guard  himself, 
his  tongue,  his  feet,  his  thoughts,  never 
knowing  in  what  hour  the  eyes  of  the  law 
would  pierce  the  veneer  of  his  disguise  and 
deliver  his  life  as  the  forfeit.  There  were 
times  when  the  contemplation  of  these 
things  appalled  him,  and  his  mind  turned 
to  other  channels  of  escape.  And  then — 
always — he  heard  Conniston's  cool,  fight 
ing  voice,  and  the  red  blood  fired  up  in 
his  veins,  and  he  faced  home. 

He  was  Derwent  Conniston.  And  never 
for  an  hour  could  he  put  out  of  his  mind 
the  one  great  mystifying  question  in  this 
adventure  of  life  and  death,  who  was  Der 
went  Conniston?  Shred  by  shred  he 
pieced  together  what  little  he  knew,  and 
always  he  arrived  at  the  same  futile  end. 


40  THE  RIVER'S  END 

An  Englishman,  dead  to  his  family  if  he 
had  one,  an  outcast  or  an  expatriate — and 
the  finest,  bravest  gentleman  he  had  ever 
known.  It  was  the  why  fore  of  these  things 
that  stirred  within  him  an  emotion  which 
he  had  never  experienced  before.  The 
Englishman  had  grimly  and  determinedly 
taken  his  secret  to  the  grave  with  him.  To 
him,  John  Keith — who  was  now  Derwent 
Conniston — he  had  left  an  heritage  of  deep 
mystery  and  the  mission,  if  he  so  chose,  of 
discovering  who  he  was,  whence  he  had 
come — and  why.  Often  he  looked  at  the 
young  girl's  picture  in  the  watch,  and 
always  he  saw  in  her  eyes  something  which 
made  him  think  of  Conniston  as  he  lay  in 
the  last  hour  of  his  life.  Undoubtedly  the 
girl  had  grown  into  a  woman  now. 

Days  grew  into  weeks,  and  under  Keith's 
feet  the  wet,  sweet-smelling  earth  rose  up 
through  the  last  of  the  slush  snow.  Three 
hundred  miles  below  the  Barrens,  he  was 
in  the  Reindeer  Lake  country  early  in 
May.  For  a  week  he  rested  at  a  trapper's 
cabin  on  the  Burntwood,  and  after  that  set 
out  for  Cumberland  House.  Ten  days 
later  he  arrived  at  the  post,  and  in  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  41 

sunlit  glow  of  the  second  evening  after 
ward  he  built  his  camp-fire  on  the  shore  of 
the  yellow  Saskatchewan. 

The  mighty  river,  beloved  from  the  days 
of  his  boyhood,  sang  to  him  again,  that 
njght,  the  wonderful  things  that  time  and 
grief  bad  dimmed  in  his  heart.  The  moon 
rose  over  it,  a  warm  wind  drifted  out  of 
the  south,  and  Keith,  smoking  his  pipe, 
sat  for  a  long  time  listening  to  the  soft 
murmur  of  it  as  it  rolled  past  at  his  feet. 
For  him  it  had  always  been  more  than  the 
river.  He  had  grown  up  with  it,  and 
it  had  become  a  part  of  him;  it  had 
mothered  his  earliest  dreams  and  ambi 
tions;  on  it  he  had  sought  his  first  adven 
tures;  it  had  been  his  chum,  his  friend, 
and  his  comrade,  and  the  fancy  struck  him 
that  in  the  murmuring  voice  of  it  tonight 
there  was  a  gladness,  a  welcome,  an  exulta 
tion  in  his  return.  He  looked  out  on  its 
silvery  bars  shimmering  in  the  moonlight, 
and  a  flood  of  memories  swept  upon  him. 
Thirty  years  was  not  so  long  ago  that  he 
could  not  remember  the  beautiful  mother 
who  had  told  him  stories  as  the  sun  went 
down  and  bedtime  drew  near.  And 


42  THE  RIVER'S  END 

vividly  there  stood  out  the  wonderful  tales 
of  Kistachiivun,  the  river;  how  it  was  born 
away  over  in  the  mystery  of  the  western 
mountains,  away  from  the  eyes  and  feet  of 
men;  how  it  came  down  from  the  moun 
tains  into  the  hills,  and  through  the  hills 
into  the  plains,  broadening  and  deepening 
and  growing  mightier  with  every  mile, 
until  at  last  it  swept  past  their  door,  bear 
ing  with  it  the  golden  grains  of  sand  that 
made  men  rich.  His  father  had  pointed 
out  the  deep-beaten  trails  of  buffalo  to  him 
and  had  told  him  stories  of  the  Indians 
and  of  the  land  before  white  men  came,  so 
that  between  father  and  mother  the  river 
became  his  book  of  fables,  his  wonderland, 
the  never-ending  source  of  his  treasured 
tales  of  childhood.  And  tonight  the  river 
was  the  one  thing  left  to  him.  It  was  the 
one  friend  he  could  claim  again,  the  one 
comrade  he  could  open  his  arms  to  with 
out  fear  of  betrayal.  And  with  the  grief 
for  things  that  once  had  lived  and  were 
now  dead,  there  came  over  him  a  strange 
sort  of  happiness,  the  spirit  of  the  great 
river  itself  giving  him  consolation. 

Stretching  out  his  arms,  he  cried :  "  My 


THE  RIVER'S  END  43 

old     river — it's  me — Johnny  Keith!     I've 
come  back!" 

And  the  river,  whispering,  seemed  to 
answer  him:  "It's  Johnny  Keith!  And 
he's  come  back!  He's  come  back!  " 


IV 


FOR  a  week  John  Keith  followed  up  the 
shores  of  the  Saskatchewan.  It  was  a 
hundred  and  forty  miles  from  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company's  post  of  Cumberland  House 
to  Prince  Albert  as  the  crow  would  fly, 
but  Keith  did  not  travel  a  homing  line. 
Only  now  and  then  did  he  take  advantage 
of  a  portage  trail.  Clinging  to  the  river, 
his  journey  was  lengthened  by  some  sixty 
miles.  Now  that  the  hour  for  which  Con- 
niston  had  prepared  him  was  so  close  at 
hand,  he  felt  the  need  of  this  mighty, 
tongueless  friend  that  had  played  such  an 
intimate  part  in  his  life.  It  gave  to  him 
both  courage  and  confidence,  and  in  its 
company  he  could  think  more  clearly. 
Nights  he  camped  on  its  golden-yellow 
bars  with  the  open  stars  over  his  head 
when  he  slept;  his  ears  drank  in  the 
familiar  sounds  of  long  ago,  for  which  he 
had  yearned  to  the  point  of  madness  in  his 

44 


THE  RIVER'S  END  45 

exile — the  soft  cries  of  the  birds  that 
hunted  and  mated  in  the  glow  of  the  moon, 
the  friendly  twit,  twit,  twit  of  the  low- 
flying  sand-pipers,  the  hoot  of  the  owls, 
and  the  splash  and  sleepy  voice  of  wild 
fowl  already  on  their  way  up  from  the 
south.  Out  of  that  south,  where  in  places 
the  plains  swept  the  forest  back  almost  to 
the  river's  edge,  he  heard  now  and  then  the 
doglike  barking  of  his  little  yellow  friends 
of  many  an  exciting  horseback  chase,  the 
coyotes,  and  on  the  wilderness  side,  deep 
in  the  forest,  the  sinister  howling  of 
wolves.  He  was  traveling,  literally,  the 
narrow  pathway  between  two  worlds.  The 
river  was  that  pathway.  On  the  one  hand, 
not  so  very  far  away,  were  the  rolling 
prairies,  green  fields  of  grain,  settlements 
and  towns  and  the  homes  of  men;  on  the 
other  the  wilderness  lay  to  the  water's 
edge  with  its  doors  still  open  to  him.  The 
seventh  day  a  new  sound  came  to  his  ears 
at  dawn.  It  was  the  whistle  of  a  train  at 
Prince  Albert. 

There  was  no  change  in  that  whistle, 
and  every  nerve-string  in  his  body  re 
sponded  to  it  with  crying  thrill.  It  was 


46  THE  RIVER'S  END 

the  first  voice  to  greet  his  home-coming, 
and  the  sound  of  it  rolled  the  yesterdays 
back  upon  him  in  a  deluge.  He  knew 
where  he  was  now;  he  recalled  exactly 
what  he  would  find  at  the  next  turn  in  the 
river.  A  few  minutes  later  he  heard  the 
wheezy  chug,  chug,  chug  of  the  old  gold 
dredge  at  McCoffin's  Bend.  It  would  be 
the  Betty  M.,  of  course,  with  old  Andy 
Duggan  at  the  windlass,  his  black  pipe  in 
mouth,  still  scooping  up  the  shifting  sands 
as  he  had  scooped  them  up  for  more  than 
twenty  years.  He  could  see  Andy  sitting 
at  his  post,  clouded  in  a  halo  of  tobacco 
smoke,  a  red-bearded,  shaggy-headed  giant 
of  a  man  whom  the  town  affectionately 
called  the  River  Pirate.  All  his  life  Andy 
had  spent  in  digging  gold  out  of  the  moun 
tains  or  the  river,  and  like  grim  death  he 
had  hung  to  the  bars  above  and  below 
McCoffin's  Bend.  Keith  smiled  as  he 
remembered  old  Andy's  passion  for  bacon. 
One  could  always  find  the  perfume  of 
bacon  about  the  Betty  M.,  and  when 
Duggan  went  to  town,  there  were  <  those 
who  swore  they  could  smell  it  in  his 
whiskers. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  47 

Keith  left  the  river  trail  now  for  the 
old  logging  road.  In  spite  of  his  long 
fight  to  steel  himself  for  what  Conniston 
had  called  the  "  psychological  moment," 
he  felt  himself  in  the  grip  of  an  uncom 
fortable  mental  excitement.  At  last  he  was 
face  to  face  with  the  great  gamble.  In  a 
few  hours  he  would  play  his  one  card.  If 
he  won,  there  was  life  ahead  of  him  again, 
if  he  lost — death.  The  old  question  which 
he  had  struggled  to  down  surged  upon 
him.  Was  it  worth  the  chance?  Was  it  in 
an  hour  of  madness  that  he  and  Conniston 
had  pledged  themselves  to  this  amazing 
adventure?  The  forest  was  still  with  him. 
Fie  could  turn  back.  The  game  had  not 
yet  gone  so  far  that  he  could  not  with 
draw  his  hand — and  for  a  space  a  power 
ful  impulse  moved  him.  And  then,  com 
ing  suddenly  to  the  edge  of  the  clearing  at 
McCoffin's  Bend,  he  saw  the  dredge  close 
inshore,  and  striding  up  from  the  beach 
Andy  Duggan  himself!  In  another  mo 
ment  Keith  had  stepped  forth  and  was 
holding  up  a  hand  in  greeting. 

He  felt  his  heart  thumping  in  an  un 
familiar  way  as  Duggan  came  on.  Was  it 


48  THE  RIVER'S  END 

conceivable  that  the  riverman  would  not 
recognize  him?  He  forgot  his  beard,  for 
got  the  great  change  that  four  years  had 
wrought  in  him.  He  remembered  only 
that  Duggan  had  been  his  friend,  that  a 
hundred  times  they  had  sat  together  in  the 
quiet  glow  of  long  evenings,  telling  tales 
of  the  great  river  they  both  loved.  And 
always  Duggan's  stories  had  been  of  that 
mystic  paradise  hidden  away  in  the  west 
ern  mountains — the  river's  end,  the  para 
dise  of  golden  lure,  where  the  Saskatche 
wan  was  born  amid  towering  peaks,  and 
where  Duggan — a  long  time  ago — had 
quested  for  the  treasure  which  he  knew 
was  hidden  somewhere  there.  Four  years 
had  not  changed  Duggan.  If  anything  his 
beard  was  redder  and  thicker  and  his  hair 
shaggier  than  when  Keith  had  last  seen 
him.  And  then,  following  him  from  the 
Betsy  M.,  Keith  caught  the  everlasting 
scent  of  bacon.  He  devoured  it  in  deep 
breaths.  His  soul  cried  out  for  it.  Once 
he  had  grown  tired  of  Duggan's  bacon,  but 
now  he  felt  that  he  could  go  on  eating  it 
forever.  As  Duggan  advanced,  he  was 
moved  by  a  tremendous  desire  to  stretch 


THE  RIVER'S  END  49 

out  his  hand  and  say:  "I'm  John  Keith. 
Don't  you  know  me,  Duggan?"  Instead, 
he  choked  back  his  desire  and  said,  "  Fine 
morning!  " 

Duggan  nodded  uncertainly.  He  was 
evidently  puzzled  at  not  being  able  to 
place  his  man.  "  It's  always  fine  on  the 
river,  rain  'r  shine.  Anybody  who  says  it 
ain't  is  a  God  A'mighty  liar!  " 

He  was  still  the  old  Duggan,  ready  to 
fight  for  his  river  at  the  drop  of  a  hat  I 
Keith  wanted  to  hug  him.  He  shifted  his 
pack  and  said: 

"  I've  slept  with  it  for  a  week — just  to 
have  it  for  company — on  the  way  down 
from  Cumberland  House.  Seems  good  to 
get  back!"  He  took  off  his  hat  and  met 
the  riverman's  eyes  squarely.  "  Do  you 
happen  to  know  if  McDowell  is  at  bar 
racks?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  is,"  said  Duggan. 

That  was  all.  He  was  looking  at  Keith 
with  a  curious  directness.  Keith  held  his 
breath.  He  would  have  given  a  good  deal 
to  have  seen  behind  Duggan's  beard. 
There  was  a  hard  note  in  the  riverman's 
voice,  too.  It  puzzled  him.  And  there 


50  THE  RIVER'S  END 

was  a  flash  of  sullen  fire  in  his  eyes  at  the 
mention  of  McDowell's  name. 

"  The  Inspector's  there — sittin'  tight," 
he  added,  and  to  Keith's  amazement 
brushed  past  him  without  another  word 
and  disappeared  into  the  bush. 

This,  at  least,  was  not  like  the  good- 
humored  Duggan  of  four  years  ago. 
Keith  replaced  his  hat  and  went  on.  At 
the  farther  side  of  the  clearing  he  turned 
and  looked  back.  Duggan  stood  in  the 
open  roadway,  his  hands  thrust  deep  in 
his  pockets,  staring  after  him.  Keith 
waved  his  hand,  but  Duggan  did  not  re 
spond.  He  stood  like  a  sphinx,  his  big 
red  beard  glowing  in  the  early  sun,  and 
watched  Keith  until  he  was  gone. 

To  Keith  this  first  experiment  in  the 
matter  of  testing  an  identity  was  a  dis 
appointment.  It  was  not  only  disappoint 
ing  but  filled  him  with  apprehension.  It 
was  true  that  Duggan  had  not  recognized 
him  as  John  Keith,  but  neither  had  he 
recognized  him  as  Derwent  Connistonf 
And  Duggan  was  not  a  man  to  forget  in 
three  or  four  years — or  half  a  lifetime,  for 
that  matter.  He  saw  himself  facing  a  new 


THE  RIVER'S  END  51 

and  unexpected  situation.  What  if  Mc 
Dowell,  like  Duggan,  saw  in  him  nothing 
more  than  a  stranger?  The  Englishman's 
last  words  pounded  in  his  head  again  like 
little  fists  beating  home  a  truth,  "  You  win 
or  lose  the  moment  McDowell  first  sets  his 
eyes  on  you."  They  pressed  upon  him  now 
with  a  deadly  significance.  For  the  first 
time  he  understood  all  that  Conniston  had 
meant.  His  danger  was  not  alone  in  the 
possibility  of  being  recognized  as  John 
Keith;  it  lay  also  in  the  hazard  of  not  be 
ing  recognized  as  Derwent  Conniston. 

If  the  thought  had  come  to  him  to  turn 
back,  if  the  voice  of  fear  and  a  premoni 
tion  of  impending  evil  had  urged  him  to 
seek  freedom  in  another  direction,  their 
whispered  cautions  were  futile  in  the  thrill 
of  the  greater  excitement  that  possessed 
him  now.  That  there  was  a  third  hand 
playing  in  this  game  of  chance  in  which 
Conniston  had  already  lost  his  life,  and  in 
which  he  was  now  staking  his  own,  was 
something  which  gave  to  Keith  a  new  and 
entirely  unlooked-for  desire  to  see  the  end 
of  the  adventure.  The  mental  vision  if  hi* 
own  certain  fate,  should  he  lose,  dissolved 


52  THE  RIVER'S  END 

into  a  nebulous  presence  that  no  longer  op 
pressed  nor  appalled  him.  Physical  in 
stinct  to  fight  against  odds,  the  inspiration 
that  presages  the  uncertainty  of  battle,  fired 
his  blood  with  an  exhilarating  eagerness. 
He  was  anxious  to  stand  face  to  face  with 
McDowell.  Not  until  then  would  the  real 
fight  begin.  For  the  first  time  the  fact 
seized  upon  him  that  the  Englishman  was 
wrong — he  would  not  win  or  lose  in  the 
first  moment  of  the  Inspector's  scrutiny. 
In  that  moment  he  could  lose — 
McDowell's  cleverly  trained  eyes  might 
detect  the  fraud;  but  to  win,  if  the  game 
was  not  lost  at  the  first  shot,  meant  an 
exciting  struggle.  Today  might  be  his 
Armageddon,  but  it  could  not  possess  the 
hour  of  his  final  triumph. 

He  felt  himself  now  like  a  warrior  held 
in  leash  within  sound  of  the  enemy's  guns 
and  the  smell  of  his  powder.  He  held  his 
old  world  to  be  his  enemy,  for  civilization 
meant  people,  and  the  people  were  the  law 
— and  the  law  wanted  his  life.  Never  had 
he  possessed  a  deeper  hatred  for  the  old 
code  of  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for 
a  tooth  than  in  this  hour  when  he  saw  up 


THE  RIVER'S  END  53 

the  valley  a  gray  mist  of  smoke  rising 
over  the  roofs  of  his  home  town.  He 
had  never  conceded  within  himself  that 
he  was  a  criminal.  He  believed  that  in 
killing  Kirkstone  he  had  killed  a  serpent 
who  had  deserved  to  die,  and  a  hundred 
times  he  had  told  himself  that  the  job 
would  have  been  much  more  satisfactory 
from  the  view-point  of  human  sanitation 
if  he  had  sent  the  son  in  the  father's  foot 
steps.  He  had  rid  the  people  of  a  man 
not  fit  to  live — and  the  people  wanted  to 
kill  him  for  it.  Therefore  the  men  and 
women  in  that  town  he  had  once  loved,  and 
still  loved,  were  his  enemies,  and  to  find 
friends  among  them  again  he  was  com 
pelled  to  perpetrate  a  clever  fraud. 

He  remembered  an  unboarded  path 
from  this  side  of  the  town,  which  entered 
an  inconspicuous  little  street  at  the  end  of 
which  was  a  barber  shop.  It  was  the 
barber  shop  which  he  must  reach  first. 
He  was  glad  that  it  was  early  in  the  day 
when  he  came  to  the  street  an  hour  later, 
for  he  would  meet  few  people.  The  street 
had  changed  considerably.  Long,  open 
spaces  had  filled  in  with  houses,  and  he 


54  THE  RIVER'S  END 

wondered  if  the  anticipated  boom  of  four 
years  ago  had  come.  He  smiled  grimly  as 
the  humor  of  the  situation  struck  him. 
His  father  and  he  had  staked  their  future 
in  accumulating  a  lot  of  "  outside  "  prop 
erty.  If  the  boom  had  materialized,  that 
property  was  "  inside  "  now — and  worth  a 
great  deal.  Before  he  reached  the  barber 
shop  he  realized  that  the  dream  of  the 
Prince  Albertites  had  come  true.  Pros 
perity  had  advanced  upon  them  in  mighty 
leaps.  The  population  of  the  place  had 
trebled.  He  was  a  rich  man!  And  also, 
it  occurred  to  him,  he  was  a  dead  one — 
or  would  be  when  he  reported  officially  to 
McDowell.  What  a  merry  scrap  there 
would  be  among  the  heirs  of  John  Keith, 
deceased  1 

The  old  shop  still  clung  to  its  corner, 
which  was  valuable  as  "  business  footage  " 
now.  But  it  possessed  a  new  barber.  He 
was  alone.  Keith  gave  his  instructions  in 
definite  detail  and  showed  him  Conniston's 
photograph  in  his  identification  book. 
The  beard  and  mustache  must  be  just  so, 
very  smart,  decidedly  English,  and  of  mili 
tary  neatness,  his  hair  cut  not  too  short 


THE  RIVER'S  END  55 

and  brushed  smoothly  back.  When  the 
operation  was  over,  he  congratulated  the 
barber  and  himself.  Bronzed  to  the  color 
of  an  Indian  by  wind  and  smoke,  straight 
as  an  arrow,  his  muscles  swelling  with  the 
brute  strength  of  the  wilderness,  he  smiled 
at  himself  in  the  mirror  when  he  compared 
the  old  John  Keith  with  this  new  Derwent 
Conniston!  Before  he  went  out  he  tight 
ened  his  belt  a  notch.  Then  he  headed 
straight  for  the  barracks  of  His  Majesty's 
Royal  Northwest  Mounted  Police. 

His  way  took  him  up  the  main  street, 
past  the  rows  of  shops  that  had  been  there 
four  years  ago,  past  the  Saskatchewan 
Hotel  and  the  little  Board  of  Trade  build 
ing  which,  like  the  old  barber  shop,  still 
hung  to  its  original  perch  at  the  edge  of 
the  high  bank  which  ran  precipitously 
down  to  the  river.  And  there,  as  sure  as 
fate,  was  Percival  Clary,  the  little  English 
Secretary!  But  what  a  different  Percy  I 
He  had  broadened  out  and  straightened 
up.  He  had  grown  a  mustache,  which  was 
immaculately  waxed.  His  trousers  were 
immaculately  creased,  his  shoes  were  shin 
ing,  and  he  stood  before  the  door  of  his 


56  THE  RIVER'S  END 

now  important  office  resting  lightly  on  a 
cane.  Keith  grinned  as  he  witnessed  how 
prosperity  had  bolstered  up  Percival  along 
with  the  town.  His  eyes  quested  for 
familiar  faces  as  he  went  along.  Here 
and  there  he  saw  one,  but  for  the  most 
part  he  encountered  strangers,  lively  look 
ing  men  who  were  hustling  as  if  they  had 
a  mission  in  hand.  Glaring  real  estate 
signs  greeted  him  from  every  place  of 
prominence,  and  automobiles  began  to  hum 
up  and  down  the  main  street  that  stretched 
along  the  river — twenty  where  there  had 
been  one  not  so  long  ago. 

Keith  found  himself  fighting  to  keep  his 
eyes  straight  ahead  when  he  met  a  girl 
or  a  woman.  Never  had  he  believed  fully 
and  utterly  in  the  angelhood  of  the 
feminine  until  now.  He  passed  perhaps  a 
dozen  on  the  way  to  barracks,  and  he  was 
overwhelmed  with  the  desire  to  stop  and 
feast  his  eyes  upon  each  one  of  them. 
He  had  never  been  a  lover  of  women;  he 
admired  them,  he  believed  them  to  be  the 
better  part  of  man,  he  had  worshiped  his 
mother,  but  his  heart  had  been  neither 
glorified  nor  broken  by  a  passion  for  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  57 

opposite  sex.  Now,  to  the  bottom  of  his 
soul,  he  worshiped  that  dozen!  Some  of 
them  were  homely,  some  of  them  were 
plain,  two  or  three  of  them  were  pretty, 
but  to  Keith  their  present  physical  qualifi 
cations  made  no  difference.  They  were 
white  women,  and  they  were  glorious, 
every  one  of  them!  The  plainest  of  them 
was  lovely.  He  wanted  to  throw  up  his 
hat  and  shout  in  sheer  joy.  Four  years — 
and  now  he  was  back  in  angel  land!  For 
a  space  he  forgot  McDowell. 

His  head  was  in  a  whirl  when  he  came 
to  barracks.  Life  was  good,  after  all.  It 
was  worth  fighting  for,  and  he  was  bound 
to  fight.  He  went  straight  to  McDowell's 
office.  A  moment  after  his  knock  on  the 
door  the  Inspector's  secretary  appeared. 

"  The  Inspector  is  busy,  sir,"  he  said  in 
response  to  Keith's  inquiry.  "  I'll  tell 
him " 

"  That  I  am  here  on  a  very  important 
matter,"  advised  Keith.  "  He  will  admit 
me  when  you  tell  him  that  I  bring  infor 
mation  regarding  a  certain  John  Keith." 

The  secretary  disappeared  through  an 
inner  door.  It  seemed  not  more  than  ten 


58  THE  RIVER'S  END 

seconds  before  he  was  back.  "  The  In 
spector  will  see  you,  sir." 

Keith  drew  a  deep  breath  to  quiet  the 
violent  beating  of  his  heart.  In  spite  of 
all  his  courage  he  felt  upon  him  the  clutch 
of  a  cold  and  foreboding  hand,  a  hand 
that  seemed  struggling  to  drag  him  back. 
And  again  he  heard  Conniston's  dying 
voice  whispering  to  him,  "Remember,  old 
chap,  you  win  or  lose  the  moment 
McDowell  first  sets  his  eyes  on  you!" 

Was  Conniston  right? 

Win  or  lose,  he  would  play  the  game  as 
the  Englishman  would  have  played  it. 
Squaring  his  shoulders  he  entered  to  face 
McDowell,  the  cleverest  man-hunter  in  the 
Northwest. 


T^EITH'S  first  vision,  as  he  entered  the 
XV  office  of  the  Inspector  of  Police,  was 
not  of  McDowell,  but  of  a  girl.  She  sat 
directly  facing  him  as  he  advanced 
through  the  door,  the  light  from  a  window 
throwing  into  strong  relief  her  face  and 
hair.  The  effect  was  unusual.  She  was 
strikingly  handsome.  The  sun,  giving  to 
the  room  a  soft  radiance,  lit  up  her  hair 
with  shimmering  gold;  her  eyes,  Keith 
saw,  were  a  clear  and  wonderful  gray — 
and  they  stared  at  him  as  he  entered,  while 
the  poise  of  her  body  and  the  tenseness  of 
her  face  gave  evidence  of  sudden  and  un 
usual  emotion.  These  things  Keith  ob 
served  in  a  flash;  then  he  turned  toward 
McDowell. 

The  Inspector  sat  behind  a  table  covered 
with  maps  and  papers,  and  instantly  Keith 
was  conscious  of  the  penetrating  inquisi 
tion  of  his  gaze.  He  felt,  for  an  instant. 


60  THE  RIVER'S  END 

the  disquieting  tremor  of  the  criminal. 
Then  he  met  McDowell's  eyes  squarely. 
They  were,  as  Conniston  had  warned  him, 
eyes  that  could  see  through  boiler-plate. 
Of  an  indefinable  color  and  deep  set  be 
hind  shaggy,  gray  eyebrows,  they  pierced 
him  through  at  the  first  glance.  Keith 
took  in  the  carefully  waxed  gray  mus 
taches,  the  close-cropped  gray  hair,  the 
rigidly  set  muscles  of  the  man's  face,  and 
saluted. 

He  felt  creeping  over  him  a  slow  chilL 
There  was  no  greeting  in  that  iron-like 
countenance,  for  full  a  quarter-minute  no 
sign  of  recognition.  And  then,  as  the  sun 
had  played  in  the  girl's  hair,  a  new  emo 
tion  passed  over  McDowell's  face,  and 
Keith  saw  for  the  first  time  the  man  whom 
Derwent  Conniston  had  known  as  a  friend 
as  well  as  a  superior.  He  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  leaning  over  the  table  said  in  a 
voice  in  which  were  mingled  both  amaze 
ment  and  pleasure: 

"  We  were  just  talking  about  the  devil 
— and  here  you  are,  sir!  Conniston,  how 
are  you?  " 

For  a  few  moments  Keith  did  not  see. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  61 

He  had  won!  The  blood  pounded  through 
his  heart  so  violently  that  it  confused  his 
vision  and  his  senses.  He  felt  the  grip  of 
McDowell's  hand;  he  heard  his  voice;  a 
vision  swam  before  his  eyes — and  it  was 
the  vision  of  Derwent  Conniston's  trium 
phant  face.  He  was  standing  erect,  his 
head  was  up,  he  was  meeting  McDowell 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  even  smiling,  but  in 
that  swift  surge  of  exultation  he  did  not 
know.  McDowell,  still  gripping  his  hand 
and  with  his  other  hand  on  his  arm,  was 
wheeling  him  about,  and  he  found  the  girl 
on  her  feet,  staring  at  him  as  if  he  had 
newly  risen  from  the  dead. 

McDowell's  military  voice  was  snapping 
vibrantly,  "  Conniston,  meet  Miss  Miriam 
Kirkstone,  daughter  of  Judge  Kirkstone!" 

He  bowed  and  held  for  a  moment  in  his 
own  the  hand  of  the  girl  whose  father  he 
had  killed.  It  was  lifeless  and  cold.  Her 
lips  moved,  merely  speaking  his  name. 
His  own  were  mute.  McDowell  was  say 
ing  something  about  the  glory  of  the  serv 
ice  and  the  sovereignty  of  the  law.  And 
then,  breaking  in  like  the  beat  of  a  drum 
on  the  introduction,  his  voice  demanded, 


62  THE  RIVER'S  END 

"  Conniston — did  you  get  your  man?" 

The  question  brought  Keuh  to  his  senses. 
He  inclined  his  head  slightly  and  said,  "  I 
beg  to  report  that  John  Keith  is  dead, 
sir." 

He  saw  Miriam  Kirkstone  give  a  visible 
start,  as  if  his  words  had  carried  a  stab. 
She  was  apparently  making  a  strong  effort 
to  hide  her  agitation  as  she  turned  swiftly 
away  from  him,  speaking  to  McDowell. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,  Inspector 
McDowell.  I  hope  very  soon  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  talking  with  Mr.  Conniston — 
about — John  Keith." 

She  left  them,  nodding  slightly  to  Keith. 

When  she  was  gone,  a  puzzled  look 
filled  the  Inspector's  eyes.  "  She  has  been 
like  that  for  the  last  six  months,"  he  ex 
plained.  "  Tremendously  interested  in  this 
man  Keith  and  his  fate.  I  don't  believe 
that  I  have  watched  for  your  return  more 
anxiously  than  she  has,  Conniston.  And 
the  curious  part  of  it  is  she  seemed  to 
have  no  interest  in  the  matter  at  all  until 
six  months  ago.  Sometimes  I  am  afraid 
that  brooding  over  her  father's  death  has 
unsettled  her  a  little.  A  mighty  pretty 


THE  RIVER'S  END  63 

girl,  Conniston.  A  mighty  pretty  girl, 
indeed  I  And  her  brother  is  a  skunk. 
Pst!  You  haven't  forgotten  him?  " 

He  drew  a  chair  up  close  to  his  own  and 
motioned  Keith  to  be  seated.  "  You're 
changed,  Conniston!" 

The  words  came  out  of  him  like  a  shot. 
So  unexpected  were  they  that  Keith  felt 
the  effect  of  them  in  every  nerve  of  his 
body.  He  sensed  instantly  what  McDowell 
meant.  He  was  not  like  the  Englishman; 
he  lacked  his  mannerisms,  his  cool  and 
superior  suavity,  the  inimitable  quality  of 
his  nerve  and  sportsmanship.  Even  as  he 
met  the  disquieting  directness  of  the  In 
spector's  eyes,  he  could  see  Conniston  sit 
ting  in  his  place,  rolling  his  mustache  be 
tween  his  forefinger  and  thumb,  and  smil 
ing  as  though  he  had  gone  into  the  north 
but  yesterday  and  had  returned  today. 
That  was  what  McDowell  was  missing  in 
him,  the  soul  of  Conniston  himself — Con 
niston,  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  presence  and 
amiable  condescension,  the  man  who  could 
look  the  Inspector  or  the  High  Commis 
sioner  himself  between  the  eyes,  and, 
serenely  indifferent  to  Service  regulations, 


64  THE  RIVER'S  END 

say,  "  Fine  morning,  old  top!  "  Keith  was 
not  without  his  own  sense  of  humor.  How 
the  Englishman's  ghost  must  be  raging 
if  it  was  in  the  room  at  the  present 
moment!  He  grinned  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  Were  you  ever  up  there — through  the 
Long  Night — alone?"  he  asked.  "  Ever 
been  through  six  months  of  living  torture 
with  the  stars  leering  at  you  and  the  foxes 
barking  at  you  all  the  time,  fighting  to 
keep  yourself  from  going  mad?  I  went 
through  that  twice  to  get  John  Keith,  and 
I  guess  you're  right.  I'm  changed.  I  don't 
think  I'll  ever  be  the  same  again.  Some 
thing — has  gone.  I  can't  tell  what  it  is, 
but  I  feel  it.  I  guess  only  half  of  me 
pulled  through.  It  killed  John  Keith. 
Rotten,  isn't  it?  " 

He  felt  that  he  had  made  a  lucky  stroke. 
McDowell  pulled  out  a  drawer  from 
under  the  table  and  thrust  a  box  of  fat 
cigars  under  his  nose. 

"  Light  up,  Derry — light  up  and  tell  us 
what  happened.  Bless  my  soul,  you're  not 
half  dead!  A  week  in  the  old  town  will 
straighten  you  out." 


THE  RIVER'S  END  65 

He  struck  a  match  and  held  it  to  the 
tip  of  Keith's  cigar. 

For  an  hour  thereafter  Keith  told  the 
story  of  the  man-hunt.  It  was  his  Iliad. 
He  could  feel  the  presence  of  Conniston 
as  words  fell  from  his  lips;  he  forgot  the 
presence  of  the  stern-faced  man  who  was 
watching  him  and  listening  to  him;  he 
could  see  once  more  only  the  long  months 
and  years  of  that  epic  drama  of  one  against 
one,  of  pursuit  and  flight,  of  hunger  and 
cold,  of  the  Long  Nights  filled  with  the 
desolation  of  madness  and  despair.  He 
triumphed  over  himself,  and  it  was  Con 
niston  who  spoke  from  within  him.  It 
was  the  Englishman  who  told  how  terribly 
John  Keith  had  been  punished,  and  when 
he  came  to  the  final  days  in  the  lonely  little 
cabin  in  the  edge  of  the  Barrens,  Keith 
finished  with  a  choking  in  his  throat,  and 
the  words, 

"  And  that  was  how  John  Keith  died— 
a  gentleman  and  a  man!" 

He  was  thinking  of  the  Englishman,  of 
the  calm  and  fearless  smile  in  his  eyes  as 
he  died,  of  his  last  words,  the  last  friendly 
grip  of  his  hand,  and  McDowell  saw  the 


66  THE  RIVER'S  END 

thing  as  though  he  had  faced  it  himself. 
He  brushed  a  hand  over  his  face  as  if  to 
wipe  away  a  film.  For  some  moments 
after  Keith  had  finished,  he  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  man  who  he  thought  was  Con- 
niston,  and  his  mind  was  swiftly  adding 
twos  and  twos  and  fours  and  fours  as  he 
looked  away  into  the  green  valley  of  the 
Saskatchewan.  He  was  the  iron  man  when 
he  turned  to  Keith  again,  the  law  itself, 
merciless  and  potent,  by  some  miracle 
turned  into  the  form  of  human  flesh. 

"  After  two  and  a  half  years  of  that 
even  a  murderer  must  have  seemed  like  a 
saint  to  you,  Conniston.  You  have  done 
your  work  splendidly.  The  whole  story 
shall  go  to  the  Department,  and  if  it 
doesn't  bring  you  a  commission,  I'll 
resign.  But  we  must  continue  to  re 
gret  that  John  Keith  did  not  live  to  be 
hanged." 

"  He  has  paid  the  price,"  said  Keith 
dully. 

"  No,  he  has  not  paid  the  price,  not  in 
full.  He  merely  died.  It  could  have  been 
paid  only  at  the  end  of  a  rope.  His  crime 
Was  atrociously  brutal,  the  culmination  of 


THE  RIVER'S  END  67 

a  fiend's  desire  for  revenge.  We  will  wipe 
off  his  name.  But  I  can  not  wipe  away 
the  regret.  I  would  sacrifice  a  year  of  my 
life  if  he  were  in  this  room  with  you  now. 
It  would  be  worth  it.  God,  what  a 
thing  for  the  Service — to  have  brought 
John  Keith  back  to  justice  after  four 
years!  " 

He  was  rubbing  his  hands  and  smiling  at 
Keith  even  as  he  spoke.  His  eyes  had 
taken  on  a  filmy  glitter.  The  law!  It 
stood  there,  without  heart  or  soul,  coveting 
the  life  that  had  escaped  it.  A  feeling  of 
revulsion  swept  over  Keith. 

A  knock  came  at  the  door. 

McDowell's  voice  gave  permission,  and 
the  door  slowly  opened.  Cruze,  the  young 
secretary,  thrust  in  his  head. 

"  Shan  Tung  is  waiting,  sir,"  he  said. 

An  invisible  hand  reached  up  suddenly 
and  gripped  at  Keith's  throat.  He  turned 
aside  to  conceal  what  his  face  might  have 
betrayed.  Shan  Tung!  He  knew  what  it 
was  now  that  had  pulled  him  back,  he 
knew  why  Cnnniston's  troubled  face  had 
traveled  with  him  over  the  Barrens,  and 
there  surged  over  him  with  a  sickening 


68  THE  RIVER'S  END 

foreboding,  a  realization  of  what  it  was 
that  Conniston  had  remembered  and 
wanted  to  tell  him — when  it  was  too  late. 
They  had  forgotten  Shan  Tung,  the  China 
man! 


VI 


IN  the  hall  beyond  the  secretary's  room 
Shan  Tung  waited.  As  McDowell  was 
the  iron  and  steel  embodiment  of  the  law, 
so  Shan  Tung  was  the  flesh  and  blood 
spirit  of  the  mysticism  and  immutability 
of  his  race.  His  face  was  the  face  of  an 
image  made  of  an  unemotional  living  tissue 
in  place  of  wood  or  stone,  dispassionate, 
tolerant,  patient.  What  passed  in  the  brain 
behind  his  yellow-tinged  eyes  only  Shan 
Tung  knew.  It  was  his  secret.  And 
McDowell  had  ceased  to  analyze  or  at 
tempt  to  understand  him.  The  law,  baf 
fled  in  its  curiosity,  had  come  to  accept 
him  as  a  weird  and  wonderful  mechanism 
— a  thing  more  than  a  man — possessed 
of  an  unholy  power.  This  power  was  the 
oriental's  marvelous  ability  to  remember 
faces.  Once  Shan  Tung  looked  at  a  face, 
it  was  photographed  in  his  memory  for 
years.  Time  and  change  could  not  make 
him  forget — and  the  law  made  use  of  him. 

69 


70  THE  RIVER'S  END 

Briefly  McDowell  had  classified  him 
at  Headquarters.  "  Either  an  exiled  prime 
minister  of  China  or  the  devil  in  a  yellow 
skin,"  he  had  written  to  the  Commissioner. 
"  Correct  age  unknown  and  past  history  a 
mystery.  Dropped  into  Prince  Albert  in 
1908  wearing  diamonds  and  patent  leather 
shoes.  A  stranger  then  and  a  stranger  now. 
Proprietor  and  owner  of  the  Shan  Tung 
Cafe.  Educated,  soft-spoken,  womanish, 
but  the  one  man  on  earth  I'd  hate  to  be 
in  a  dark  room  with,  knives  drawn.  I 
use  him,  mistrust  him,  watch  him,  and 
would  fear  him  under  certain  conditions. 
As  far  as  we  can  discover,  he  is  harmless 
and  law-abiding.  But  such  a  ferret  must 
surely  have  played  his  game  somewhere,  at 
some  time." 

This  was  the  man  whom  Conniston  had 
forgotten  and  Keith  now  dreaded  to  meet. 
For  many  minutes  Shan  Tung  had  stood  at 
a  window  looking  out  upon  the  sunlit  drill- 
ground  and  the  broad  sweep  of  green  be 
yond.  He  was  toying  with  his  slim  hands 
caressingly.  Half  a  smile  was  on  his  lips. 
No  man  had  ever  seen  more  than  that 
half  smile  illuminate  Shan  Tung's  face. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  71 

His  black  hair  was  sleek  and  carefully 
trimmed.  His  dress  was  immaculate.  His 
slimness,  as  McDowell  had  noted,  was  the 
slimness  of  a  young  girl. 

When  Cruze  came  to  announce  that 
McDowell  would  see  him,  Shan  Tung  was 
still  visioning  the  golden-headed  figure  of 
Miriam  Kirkstone  as  he  had  seen  her  pass 
ing  through  the  sunshine.  There  was 
something  like  a  purr  in  his  breath  as  he 
stood  interlacing  his  tapering  fingers.  The 
instant  he  heard  the  secretary's  footsteps 
the  finger  play  stopped,  the  purr  died,  the 
half  smile  was  gone.  He  turned  softly. 
Cruze  did  not  speak.  He  simply  made 
a  movement  of  his  head,  and  Shan  Tung's 
feet  fell  noiselessly.  Only  the  slight  sound 
made  by  the  opening  and  closing  of  a  door 
gave  evidence  of  his  entrance  into  the  In 
spector's  room.  Shan  Tung  and  no  other 
could  open  and  close  a  door  like  that. 
Cruze  shivered.  He  always  shivered  when 
Shan  Tung  passed  him,  and  always  he 
swore  that  he  could  smell  something  in 
the  air,  like  a  poison  left  behind. 

Keith,  facing  the  window,  was  waiting. 
The  moment  the  door  was  opened,  he  felt 


72  THE  RIVER'S  END 

Shan  Tung's  presence.  Every  nerve  in  his 
body  was  keyed  to  an  uncomfortable  ten 
sion.  The  thought  that  his  grip  on  him 
self  was  weakening,  and  because  of  a 
Chinaman,  maddened  him.  And  he  must 
turn.  Not  to  face  Shan  Tung  now  would 
be  but  a  postponement  of  the  ordeal  and 
a  confession  of  cowardice. 

Forcing  his  hand  into  Conniston's  little 
trick  of  twisting  a  mustache,  he  turned 
slowly,  leveling  his  eyes  squarely  to  meet 
Shan  Tung's. 

To  his  surprise  Shan  Tung  seemed  ut 
terly  oblivious  of  his  presence.  He  had 
not,  apparently,  taken  more  than  a  casual 
glance  in  his  direction.  In  a  voice  which 
one  beyond  the  door  might  have  mis 
taken  for  a  woman's,  he  was  saying  to 
McDowell : 

"  I  have  seen  the  man  you  sent  me  to 
see,  Mr.  McDowell.  It  is  Larsen.  He  has 
changed  much  in  eight  years.  He  has 
grown  a  beard.  He  has  lost  an  eye.  His 
hair  has  whitened.  But  it  is  Larsen." 

The  faultlessness  of  his  speech  and  the 
unemotional  but  perfect  inflection  of  his 
words  made  Keith,  like  the  young  secre- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  73 

tary,  shiver  where  he  stood.  In  McDow 
ell's  face  he  saw  a  flash  of  exultation. 

"  He  had  no  suspicion  of  you,  Shan 
Tung?  " 

"  He  did  not  see  me  to  suspect.  He  will 

be  there — when "  Slowly  he  faced 

Keith.  " — When  Mr.  Conniston  goes  to 
arrest  him,"  he  finished. 

He  inclined  his  head  as  he  backed  noise 
lessly  toward  the  door.  His  yellow  eyes 
did  not  leave  Keith's  face.  In  them  Keith 
fancied  that  he  caught  a  sinister  gleam. 
There  was  the  faintest  inflection  of  a  new 
note  in  his  voice,  and  his  fingers  were  play 
ing  again,  but  not  as  when  he  had  looked 
out  through  the  window  at  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone.  And  then — in  a  flash,  it  seemed  to 
Keith — the  Chinaman's  eyes  closed  to  nar 
row  slits,  and  the  pupils  became  points  of 
flame  no  larger  than  the  sharpened  ends  of 
a  pair  of  pencils.  The  last  that  Keith  was 
conscious  of  seeing  of  Shan  Tung  was  the 
oriental's  eyes.  They  had  seemed  to  drag 
his  soul  half  out  of  his  body. 

"  A  queer  devil,"  said  McDowell, 
"  After  he  is  gone,  I  always  feel  as  if  a 
snake  had  been  in  the  room.  He  still  hates 


74  THE  RIVER'S  END 

you,  Conniston.  Three  years  have  made  no 
difference.  He  hates  you  like  poison.  I 
believe  he  would  kill  you,  if  he  had  a 
chance  to  do  it  and  get  away  with  the 
business.  And  you — you  blooming  idiot — 
simply  twiddle  your  mustache  and  laugh 
at  him!  I'd  feel  differently  if  I  were  in 
your  boots." 

Inwardly  Keith  was  asking  himself  why 
it  was  that  Shan  Tung  had  hated  Con 
niston. 

McDowell  added  nothing  to  enlighten 
him.  He  was  gathering  up  a  number  of 
papers  scattered  on  his  desk,  smiling  with 
a  grim  satisfaction.  "  It's  Larsen  all  right 
if  Shan  Tung  says  so,"  he  told  Keith. 
And  then,  as  if  he  had  only  thought  of  the 
matter,  he  said,  "  You're  going  to  reenlist, 
aren't  you,  Conniston?  " 

"  I  still  owe  the  Service  a  month  or  so 
before  my  term  expires,  don't  I?  After 
that — yes — I  believe  I  shall  reenlist." 

"Good!"  approved  the  Inspector. 
"  I'll  have  you  a  sergeancy  within  a  month. 
Meanwhile  you're  off  duty  and  may  do 
anything  you  please.  You  know  Brady, 
the  Company  agent?  He's  up  the  Macken- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  75 

zie  on  a  trip,  and  here's  the  key  to  his 
shack.  I  know  you'll  appreciate  getting 
under  a  real  roof  again,  and  Brady  won't 
object  as  long  as  I  collect  his  thirty  dollars 
a  month  rent.  Of  course  Barracks  is  open 
to  you,  but  it  just  occurred  to  me  you 
might  prefer  this  place  while  on  furlough. 
Everything  is  there  from  a  bathtub  to  nut 
crackers,  and  I  know  a  little  Jap  in  town 
who  is  hunting  a  job  as  a  cook.  What  do 
you  say?  " 

"Splendid!"  cried  Keith.  "I'll  go  up 
at  once,  and  if  you'll  hustle  the  Jap  along, 
I'll  appreciate  it.  You  might  tell  him  to 
bring  up  stuff  for  dinner,"  he  added. 

McDowell  gave  him  a  key.  Ten  min 
utes  later  he  was  out  of  sight  of  barracks 
and  climbing  a  green  slope  that  led  to 
Brady's  bungalow. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  not 
played  his  part  brilliantly,  he  believed  that 
he  had  scored  a  triumph.  Andy  Duggan 
had  not  recognized  him,  and  the  riverman 
had  been  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends. 
McDowell  had  accepted  him  apparently 
without  a  suspicion.  And  Shan  Tung — 

It  was  Shan  Tung  who  weighed  heavily 


76  THE  RIVER'S  END 

upon  his  mind,  even  as  his  nerves  tingled 
with  the  thrill  of  success.  He  could  not 
get  away  from  the  vision  of  the  Chinaman 
as  he  had  backed  through  the  Inspector's 
door,  the  flaming  needle-points  of  his  eyes 
piercing  him  as  he  went.  It  was  not 
hatred  he  had  seen  in  Shan  Tung's  face. 
He  was  sure  of  that.  It  was  no  emotion 
that  he  could  describe.  It  was  as  if  a  pair 
of  mechanical  eyes  fixed  in  the  head  of 
an  amazingly  efficient  mechanical  monster 
had  focused  themselves  on  him  in  those 
few  instants.  It  made  him  think  of  an 
X-ray  machine.  But  Shan  Tung  was 
human.  And  he  was  clever.  Given  an 
other  skin,  one  would  not  have  taken  him 
for  what  he  was.  The  immaculateness  of 
his  speech  and  manners  was  more  than  un 
usual;  it  was  positively  irritating,  some 
thing  which  no  Chinaman  should  right 
fully  possess.  So  argued  Keith  as  he  went 
up  to  Brady's  bungalow. 

He  tried  to  throw  off  the  oppression  of 
the  thing  that  was  creeping  over  him,  the 
growing  suspicion  that  he  had  not  passed 
safely  under  the  battery  of  Shan  Tung's 
eyes.  With  physical  things  he  endeavored 


THE  RIVER'S  END  77 

to  thrust  his  mental  uneasiness  into  the 
background.  He  lighted  one  of  the  half- 
dozen  cigars  McDowell  had  dropped  into 
his  pocket.  It  was  good  to  feel  a  cigar 
between  his  teeth  again  and  taste  its  flavor. 
At  the  crest  of  the  slope  on  which  Brady's 
bungalow  stood,  he  stopped  and  looked 
about  him.  Instinctively  his  eyes  turned 
first  to  the  west.  In  that  direction  half  of 
the  town  lay  under  him,  and  beyond  its 
edge  swept  the  timbered  slopes,  the  river, 
and  the  green  pathways  of  the  plains. 
His  heart  beat  a  little  faster  as  he  looked. 
Half  a  mile  away  was  a  tiny,  parklike 
patch  of  timber,  and  sheltered  there,  with 
the  river  running  under  it,  was  the  old 
home.  The  building  was  hidden,  but 
through  a  break  in  the  trees  he  could  see 
the  top  of  the  old  red  brick  chimney 
glowing  in  the  sun,  as  if  beckoning  a  wel 
come  to  him  over  the  tree  tops.  He  for 
got  Shan  Tung;  he  forgot  McDowell;  he 
forgot  that  he  was  John  Keith,  the  mur 
derer,  in  the  overwhelming  sea  of  loneli 
ness  that  swept  over  him.  He  looked  out 
into  the  world  that  had  once  been  his, 
and  all  that  he  saw  was  that  red  brick 


78  THE  RIVER'S  END 

chimney  glowing  in  the  sun,  and  the  chim 
ney  changed  until  at  last  it  seemed  to  him 
like  a  tombstone  rising  over  the  graves  of 
the  dead.  He  turned  to  the  door  of  the 
bungalow  with  a  thickening  in  his  throat 
and  his  eyes  filmed  by  a  mist  through 
which  for  a  few  moments  it  was  difficult 
for  him  to  see. 

The  bungalow  was  darkened  by  drawn 
curtains  when  he  entered.  One  after  an 
other  he  let  them  up,  and  the  sun  poured 
in.  Brady  had  left  his  place  in  order,  and 
Keith  felt  about  him  an  atmosphere  of 
cheer  that  was  a  mighty  urge  to  his  flag 
ging  spirits.  Brady  was  a  home  man  with 
out  a  wife.  The  Company's  agent  had 
called  his  place  "  The  Shack "  because  it 
was  built  entirely  of  logs,  and  a  woman 
could  not  have  made  it  more  comfortable. 
Keith  stood  in  the  big  living-room.  At 
one  end  was  a  strong  fireplace  in  which 
kindlings  and  birch  were  already  laid, 
waiting  the  touch  of  a  match.  Brady's 
reading  table  and  his  easy  chair  were 
drawn  up  close;  his  lounging  moccasins 
were  on  a  footstool;  pipes,  tobacco,  books 
and  magazines  littered  the  table;  and  out 


THE  RIVER'S  END  79 

of  this  cheering  disorder  rose  triumphantly 
the  amber  shoulder  of  a  half-filled  bottle 
of  Old  Rye. 

Keith  found  himself  chuckling.  His 
grin  met  the  lifeless  stare  of  a  pair  of 
glass  eyes  in  the  huge  head  of  an  old  bull 
moose  over  the  mantel,  and  after  that  his 
gaze  rambled  over  the  walls  ornamented 
with  mounted  heads,  pictures,  snowshoes, 
gun-racks  and  the  things  which  went  to 
make  up  the  comradeship  and  business  of 
Brady's  picturesque  life.  Keith  could  look 
through  into  the  little  dining-room,  and 
beyond  that  was  the  kitchen.  He  made  an 
inventory  of  both  and  found  that  Mc 
Dowell  was  right.  There  were  nutcrackers 
in  Brady's  establishment.  And  he  found 
the  bathroom.  It  was  not  much  larger 
than  a  piano  box,  but  the  tub  was  man's 
size,  and  Keith  raised  a  window  and  poked 
his  head  out  to  find  that  it  was  connected 
with  a  rainwater  tank  built  by  a  genius, 
just  high  enough  to  give  weight  sufficient 
for  a  water  system  and  low  enough  to 
gather  the  rain  as  it  fell  from  the  eaves. 
He  laughed  outright,  the  sort  of  laugh 
that  comes  out  of  a  man's  soul  not  when 


8o  THE  RIVER'S  END 

he  is  amused  but  when  he  is  pleased.  By 
the  time  he  had  investigated  the  two  bed 
rooms,  he  felt  a  real  affection  for  Brady. 
He  selected  the  agent's  room  for  his  own. 
Here,  too,  were  pipes  and  tobacco  and 
books  and  magazines,  and  a  reading  lamp 
on  a  table  close  to  the  bedside.  Not  until 
he  had  made  a  closer  inspection  of  the 
living-room  did  he  discover  that  the  Shack 
also  had  a  telephone. 

By  that  time  he  noted  that  the  sun  had 
gone  out.  Driving  up  from  the  west  wai 
a  mass  of  storm  clouds.  He  unlocked  a 
door  from  which  he  could  look  up  the 
river,  and  the  wind  that  was  riding  softly 
in  advance  of  the  storm  ruffled  his  hair 
and  cooled  his  face.  In  it  he  caught  again 
the  old  fancy — the  smells  of  the  vast 
reaches  of  unpeopled  prairie  beyond  the 
rim  of  the  forest,  and  the  luring  chill  of 
the  distant  mountain  tops.  Always  storm 
that  came  down  with  the  river  brought  to 
him  voice  from  the  river's  end.  It  came 
to  him  from  the  great  mountains  that  were 
a  passion  with  him;  it  seemed  to  thunder 
to  him  the  old  stories  of  the  mightiest  fast 
nesses  of  the  Rockies  and  stirred  in  him 


THE  RIVER'S  END  81 

the  child-bred  yearning  to  follow  up  his 
beloved  river  until  he  came  at  last  to  the 
mystery  of  its  birthplace  in  the  cradle  of 
the  western  ranges.  And  now,  as  he  faced 
the  storm,  the  grip  of  that  desire  held  him 
like  a  strong  hand. 

The  sky  blackened  swiftly,  and  with  the 
rumbling  of  far-away  thunder  he  saw  the 
lightning  slitting  the  dark  heaven  like  bay 
onets,  and  the  fire  of  the  electrical  charges 
galloped  to  him  and  filled  his  veins.  His 
heart  all  at  once  cried  out  words  that  his 
lips  did  not  utter.  Why  should  he  not 
answer  the  call  that  had  come  to  him 
through  all  the  years?  Now  was  the 
time — and  why  should  he  not  go?  Why 
tempt  fate  in  the  hazard  of  a  great  ad 
venture  where  home  and  friends  and  even 
hope  were  dead  to  him,  when  off  there 
beyond  the  storm  was  the  place  of  his 
dreams?  He  threw  out  his  arms.  His 
voice  broke  at  last  in  a  cry  of  strange 
ecstasy.  Not  everything  was  gone!  Not 
everything  was  dead!  Over  the  graveyard 
of  his  past  there  was  sweeping  a  mighty 
force  that  called  him,  something  that  was 
no  longer  merely  an  urge  and  a  demand 


82  THE  RIVER'S  END 

but  a  thing  that  was  irresistible.  He 
would  go!  Tomorrow — today — tonight — 
he  would  begin  making  plans  I 

He  watched  the  deluge  as  it  came  on 
with  a  roar  of  wind,  a  beating,  hissing  wall 
under  which  the  tree  tops  down  in  the 
edge  of  the  plain  bent  their  heads  like  a 
multitude  of  people  in  prayer.  He  saw  it 
sweeping  up  the  slope  in  a  mass  of  gray 
dragoons.  It  caught  him  before  he  had 
closed  the  door,  and  his  face  dripped  with 
wet  as  he  forced  the  last  inch  of  it  againsf 
the  wind  with  his  shoulder.  It  was  the 
sort  of  storm  Keith  liked.  The  thunder 
was  the  rumble  of  a  million  giant  cart 
wheels  rolling  overhead. 

Inside  the  bungalow  it  was  growing 
dark  as  though  evening  had  come.  He 
dropped  on  his  knees  before  the  pile  of 
dry  fuel  in  the  fireplace  and  struck  a 
match.  For  a  space  the  blaze  smoldered; 
then  the  birch  fired  up  like  oil-soaked 
tinder,  and  a  yellow  flame  crackled  and 
roared  up  the  flue.  Keith  was  sensitive  in 
the  matter  of  smoking  other  people's  pipes, 
so  he  drew  out  his  own  and  filled  it  with 
Brady's  tobacco.  It  was  an  English  mix- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  83 

ture,  rich  and  aromatic,  and  as  the  fire 
burned  brighter  and  the  scent  of  the 
tobacco  filled  the  room,  he  dropped  into 
Brady's  big  lounging  chair  and  stretched 
out  his  legs  with  a  deep  breath  of  satis 
faction.  His  thoughts  wandered  to  the 
clash  of  the  storm.  He  would  have  a  place 
like  this  off  there  in  the  mystery  of  the 
trackless  mountains,  where  the  Saskatche 
wan  was  born.  He  would  build  it  like 
Brady's  place,  even  to  the  rain-water  tank 
midway  between  the  roof  and  the  ground. 
And  after  a  few  years  no  one  would  re 
member  that  a  man  named  John  Keith 
had  ever  lived. 

Something  brought  him  suddenly  to 
his  feet.  It  was  the  ringing  of  the  tele 
phone.  After  four  years  the  sound  was  one 
that  roused  with  an  uncomfortable  jump 
every  nerve  in  his  body.  Probably  it  was 
McDowell  calling  up  about  the  Jap  or  to 
ask  how  he  liked  the  place.  Probably — 
it  was  that.  He  repeated  the  thought 
aloud  as  he  laid  his  pipe  on  the  table. 
And  yet  as  his  hand  came  in  contact  with 
the  telephone,  he  felt  an  inclination  to 
draw  back.  A  subtle  voice  whispered  him 


84  THE  RIVER'S  END 

not  to  answer,  to  leave  while  the  storm  was 
dark,  to  go  back  into  the  wilderness,  to 
fight  his  way  to  the  western  mountains. 

With  a  jerk  he  unhooked  the  receiver 
and  put  it  to  his  ear. 

It  was  not  McDowell  who  answered 
him.  It  was  not  Shan  Tung.  To  his 
amazement,  coming  to  him  through  the 
tumult  of  the  storm,  he  recognized  the 
voice  of  Miriam  Kirkstone! 


VII 

WHY  should  Miriam  Kirkstone  call 
him  up  in  an  hour  when  the  sky 
was  livid  with  the  flash  of  lightning  and 
the  earth  trembled  with  the  roll  of  thun 
der?  This  was  the  question  that  filled 
Keith's  mind  as  he  listened  to  the  voice 
at  the  other  end  of  the  wire.  It  was 
pitched  to  a  high  treble  as  if  uncon 
sciously  the  speaker  feared  that  the  storm 
might  break  in  upon  her  words.  She 
was  telling  him  that  she  had  telephoned 
McDowell  but  had  been  too  late  to  catch 
him  before  he  left  for  Brady's  bungalow; 
she  was  asking  him  to  pardon  her  for  in 
truding  upon  his  time  so  soon  after  his 
return,  but  she  was  sure  that  he  would 
understand  her.  She  wanted  him  to  come 
up  to  see  her  that  evening  at  eight  o'clock. 
It  was  important — to  her.  Would  he 
come? 

Before   Keith   had   taken   a   moment   to 
consult  with  himself  he  had  replied  that 
85 


86  THE  RIVER'S  END 

he  would.  He  heard  her  "  thank  you," 
her  "  good-by,"  and  hung  up  the  receiver, 
stunned.  So  far  as  he  could  remember, 
he  had  spoken  no  more  than  seven  words. 
The  beautiful  young  woman  up  at  the 
Kirkstone  mansion  had  clearly  betrayed 
her  fear  of  the  lightning  by  winding  up 
her  business  with  him  at  the  earliest  pos 
sible  moment.  Why,  then,  had  she  not 
waited  until  the  storm  was  over? 

A  pounding  at  the  door  interrupted  his 
thought.  He  went  to  it  and  admitted  an 
individual  who,  in  spite  of  his  water- 
soaked  condition,  was  smiling  all  over. 
It  was  Wallie,  the  Jap.  He  was  no  larger 
than  a  boy  of  sixteen,  and  from  eyes,  ears, 
nose,  and  hair  he  was  dripping  streams, 
while  his  coat  bulged  with  packages  which 
he  had  struggled  to  protect  from  the  tor 
rent  through  which  he  had  forced  his  way 
up  the  hill.  Keith  liked  him  on  the  in 
stant.  He  found  himself  powerless  to 
resist  the  infection  of  Wallie's  grin,  and  as 
Wallie  hustled  into  the  kitchen  like  a  wet 
spaniel,  he  followed  and  helped  him  un 
load.  By  the  time  the  little  Jap  had  dis 
gorged  his  last  package,  he  had  assured 


THE  RIVER'S  END  87 

Keith  that  the  rain  was  nice,  that  his  name 
was  Wallie,  that  he  expected  five  dollars 
a  week  and  could  cook  "  like  heaven." 
Keith  laughed  outright,  and  Wallie  was  so 
delighted  with  the  general  outlook  that 
he  fairly  kicked  his  heels  together.  There 
after  for  an  hour  or  so  he  was  left  alone 
in  possession  of  the  kitchen,  and  shortly 
Keith  began  to  hear  certain  sounds  and 
catch  occasional  odoriferous  whiffs  which 
assured  him  that  Wallie  was  losing  no  time 
in  demonstrating  his  divine  efficiency  in 
the  matter  of  cooking. 

Wallie's  coming  gave  him  an  excuse  to 
call  up  McDowell.  He  confessed  to  a  dis 
quieting  desire  to  hear  the  inspector's  voice 
again.  In  the  back  of  his  head  was  the 
fear  of  Shan  Tung,  and  the  hope  that 
McDowell  might  throw  some  light  on 
Miriam  Kirkstone's  unusual  request  to 
see  her  that  night.  The  storm  had  settled 
down  into  a  steady  drizzle  when  he  got  in 
touch  \vith  him,  and  he  was  relieved  to  find 
there  was  no  change  in  the  friendliness  of 
the  voice  that  came  over  the  telephone.  If 
Shan  Tung  had  a  suspicion,  he  had  kept 
it  to  himself. 


88  THE  RIVER'S  END 

To  Keith's  surprise  it  was  McDowell 
who  spoke  first  of  Miss  Kirkstone. 

"  She  seemed  unusually  anxious  to  get 
in  touch  with  you,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
frankly  disturbed  over  a  certain  matter, 
Conniston,  and  I  should  like  to  talk  with 
you  before  you  go  up  tonight." 

Keith  sniffed  the  air.  "  Wallie  is  going 
to  ring  the  dinner  bell  within  half  an  hour. 
Why  not  slip  on  a  raincoat  and  join  me  up 
here?  I  think  it's  going  to  be  pretty 
good." 

"  I'll  come,"  said  McDowell.  "  Expect 
me  any  moment." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Keith  was  helping 
him  off  with  his  wet  slicker.  He  had  ex 
pected  McDowell  to  make  some  observa 
tion  on  the  cheerfulness  of  the  birch  fire 
and  the  agreeable  aromas  that  were  leak 
ing  from  Wallie's  kitchen,  but  the  in 
spector  disappointed  him.  He  stood  for  a 
fe\\T  moments  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
thumbing  down  the  tobacco  in  his  pipe, 
and  he  made  no  effort  to  conceal  the  fact 
that  there  was  something  in  his  mind  more 
important  than  dinner  and  the  cheer  of  a 
grate. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  89 

His  eyes  fell  on  the  telephone,  and  he 
nodded  toward  it.  "  Seemed  very  anxious 
to  see  you,  didn't  she,  Conniston?  I  mean 
Miss  Kirkstone." 

"  Rather." 

McDowell  seated  himself  and  lighted  a 
match.  "  Seemed — a  little — nervous — per 
haps,"  he  suggested  between  puffs.  "  As 
though  something  had  happened — or  was 
going  to  happen.  Don't  mind  my  ques 
tioning  you,  do  you,  Derry?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Keith.  "  You  see,  I 
thought  perhaps  you  might  explain- 
There  was  a  disquieting  gleam  in 
McDowell's  eyes.  "  It  was  odd  that  she 
should  call  you  up  so  soon — and  in  the 
storm — wasn't  it?  She  expected  to  find 
you  at  my  office.  I  could  fairly  hear  the 
lightning  hissing  along  the  wires.  She 
must  have  been  under  some  unusual  im 
pulse." 

"  Perhaps." 

McDowell  was  silent  for  a  space,  look 
ing  steadily  at  Keith,  as  if  measuring  him 
up  to  something. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  am  very 
deeply  interested  in  Miss  Kirkstone,"  he 


90  THE  RIVER'S  END 

said.  "  You  didn't  see  her  when  the  Judge 
was  killed.  She  was  away  at  school,  and 
you  were  on  John  Keith's  trail  when  she 
returned.  I  have  never  been  much  of  a 
woman's  man,  Conniston,  but  I  tell  you 
frankly  that  up  until  six  or  eight  months 
ago  Miriam  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
girls  I  have  ever  seen.  I  would  give  a  good 
deal  to  know  the  exact  hour  and  date 
when  the  change  in  her  began.  I  might 
be  able  to  trace  some  event  to  that  date. 
It  was  six  months  ago  that  she  began  to 
take  an  interest  in  the  fate  of  John  Keith. 
Since  then  the  change  in  her  has  alarmed 
me,  Conniston.  I  don't  understand.  She 
has  betrayed  nothing.  But  I  have  seen 
her  dying  by  inches  under  my  eyes.  She 
is  only  a  pale  and  drooping  flower  com 
pared  with  what  she  was.  I  am  positive 
it  is  not  a  sickness — unless  it  is  mental.  I 
have  a  suspicion.  It  is  almost  too  terrible 
to  put  into  words.  You  will  be  going  up 
there  tonight — you  will  be  alone  with  her, 
will  talk  with  her,  may  learn  a  great  deal 
if  you  understand  what  it  is  that  is  eating 
like  a  canker  in  my  mind.  Will  you  help 
me  to  discover  her  secret?  " 


THE  RIVER'S  END  91 

He  leaned  toward  Keith.  He  was  no 
longer  the  man  of  iron.  There  was  some 
thing  intensely  human  in  his  face. 

"  There  is  no  other  man  on  earth  I 
would  confide  this  matter  to,"  he  went  on 
slowly.  "  It  will  take — a  gentleman — to 
handle  it,  someone  who  is  big  enough  to 
forget  if  my  suspicion  is  untrue,  and  who 
will  understand  fully  what  sacrilege  means 
should  it  prove  true.  It  is  extremely  deli 
cate.  I  hesitate.  And  yet — I  am  waiting, 
Conniston.  Is  it  necessary  to  ask  you  to 
pledge  secrecy  in  the  matter?  " 

Keith  held  out  a  hand.  McDowell 
gripped  it  tight 

"  It  is — Shan  Tung,"  he  said,  a  peculiar 
hiss  in  his  voice.  "  Shan  Tung — and 
Miriam  Kirkstone!  Do  you  understand, 
Conniston?  Does  the  horror  of  it  get  hold 
of  you?  Can  you  make  yourself  believe 
that  it  is  possible?  Am  I  mad  to  allow 
such  a  suspicion  to  creep  into  my  brain? 
Shan  Tung — Miriam  Kirkstone!  And  she 
sees  herself  standing  now  at  the  very  edge 
of  the  pit  of  hell,  and  it  is  killing 
her." 

Keith  felt  his  blood  running  cold  as  he 


92  THE  RIVER'S  END 

saw  in  the  inspector's  face  the  thing  which 
he  did  not  put  more  plainly  in  word.  He 
was  shocked.  He  drew  his  hand  from 
McDowell's  grip  almost  fiercely. 

"  Impossible!  "  he  cried.  "  Yes,  you  are 
mad.  Such  a  thing  would  be  inconceiv 
able!" 

"  And  yet  I  have  told  myself  that  it  is 
possible,"  said  McDowell.  His  face  was 
returning  into  its  iron-like  mask.  His  two 
hands  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and 
he  stared  at  Keith  again  as  if  he  were 
looking  through  him  at  something  else, 
and  to  that  something  else  he  seemed  to 
speak,  slowly,  weighing  and  measuring 
each  word  before  it  passed  his  lips. 

"  I  am  not  superstitious.  It  has  always 
been  a  law  with  me  to  have  conviction 
forced  upon  me.  I  do  not  believe  unusual 
things  until  investigation  proves  them.  I 
am  making  an  exception  in  the  case  of 
Shan  Tung.  I  have  never  regarded  him 
as  a  man,  like  you  and  me,  but  as  a  sort 
of  superphysical  human  machine  possessed 
of  a  certain  psychological  power  that  is 
at  times  almost  deadly.  Do  you  begin  to 
understand  me?  I  believe  that  he  has 


THE  RIVER'S  END  93 

exerted  the  whole  force  of  that  influence 
upon  Miriam  Kirkstone — and  she  has  sur 
rendered  to  it.  I  believe — and  yet  I  am 
not  positive." 

"  And  you  have  watched  them  for  six 
months?  " 

"  No.  The  suspicion  came  less  than  a 
month  ago.  No  one  that  I  know  has  ever 
had  the  opportunity  of  looking  into  Shan 
Tung's  private  life.  The  quarters  behind 
his  cafe  are  a  mystery.  I  suppose  they  can 
be  entered  from  the  cafe  and  also  from  a 
little  stairway  at  the  rear.  One  night — 
very  late — I  saw  Miriam  Kirkstone  come 
down  that  stairway.  Twice  in  the  last 
month  she  has  visited  Shan  Tung  at  a 
late  hour.  Twice  that  I  know  of,  you 
understand.  And  that  is  not  all — quite." 

Keith  saw  the  distended  veins  in  Mc 
Dowell's  clenched  hands,  and  he  knew  that 
he  was  speaking  under  a  tremendous  strain. 

"  I  watched  the  Kirkstone  home — per 
sonally.  Three  times  in  that  same  month 
Shan  Tung  visited  her  there.  The  third 
time  I  entered  boldly  with  a  fraud  mes 
sage  for  the  girl.  I  remained  with  her  for 
an  hour.  In  that  time  I  saw  nothing  and 


94  THE  RIVER'S  END 

heard  nothing  of  Shan  Tung.  He  was 
hiding — or  got  out  as  I  came  in." 

Keith  was  visioning  Miriam  Kirkstone 
as  he  had  seen  her  in  the  inspector's  office. 
He  recalled  vividly  the  slim,  golden  beauty 
of  her,  the  wonderful  gray  of  her  eyes,  and 
the  shimmer  of  her  hair  as  she  stood  in  the 
light  of  the  window — and  then  he  saw 
Shan  Tung,  effeminate,  with  his  sly,  creep 
ing  hands  and  his  narrowed  eyes,  and  the 
thing  which  McDowell  had  suggested  rose 
up  before  him  a  monstrous  impossibility. 

"  Why  don't  you  demand  an  explanation 
of  Miss  Kirkstone?"  he  asked. 

"  I  have,  and  she  denies  it  all  absolutely, 
except  that  Shan  Tung  came  to  her  house 
once  to  see  her  brother.  She  says  that  she 
was  never  on  the  little  stairway  back  of 
Shan  Tung's  place." 

"  And  you  do  not  believe  her?  " 

"  Assuredly  not.  I  saw  her.  To  speak 
the  cold  truth,  Conniston,  she  is  lying  mag 
nificently  to  cover  up  something  which  she 
does  not  want  any  other  person  on  earth 
to  know." 

Keith  leaned  forward  suddenly.  "And 
why  is  it  that  John  Keith,  dead  and  buried, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  95 

should  have  anything  to  do  with  this?"  he 
demanded.  "  Why  did  this  ( intense  inter 
est  '  you  speak  of  in  John  Keith  begin  at 
about  the  same  time  your  suspicions  began 
to  include  Shan  Tung?  " 

McDowell  shook  his  head.  "  It  may  be 
that  her  interest  was  not  so  much  in  John 
Keith  as  in  you,  Conniston.  That  is  for 
you  to  discover — tonight.  It  is  an  inter 
esting  situation.  It  has  tragic  possibilities. 
The  instant  you  substantiate  my  suspicions 
we'll  deal  directly  with  Shan  Tung.  Just 
now — there's  Wallie  behind  you  grinning 
like  a  Cheshire  cat.  His  dinner  must  be  a 
success." 

The  diminutive  Jap  had  noiselessly 
opened  the  door  of  the  little  dining-room 
in  which  the  table  was  set  for  two. 

Keith  smiled  as  he  sat  down  opposite  the 
man  who  would  have  sent  him  to  the 
executioner  had  he  known  the  truth. 
After  all,  it  was  but  a  step  from  comedy 
to  tragedy.  And  just  now  he  was  con 
scious  of  a  bit  of  grisly  humor  in  the 
situation. 


VIII 

storm  had  settled  into  a  steady 
J-  drizzle  when  McDowell  left  the 
Shack  at  two  o'clock.  Keith  watched  the 
iron  man,  as  his  tall,  gray  figure  faded 
away  into  the  mist  down  the  slope,  with  a 
curious  undercurrent  of  emotion.  Before 
the  inspector  had  come  up  as  his  guest  he 
had,  he  thought,  definitely  decided  his 
future  action.  He  would  go  west  on  his 
furlough,  write  McDowell  that  he  had  de 
cided  not  to  reenlist,  and  bury  himself  in 
the  British  Columbia  mountains  before  an 
answer  could  get  back  to  him,  leaving  the 
impression  that  he  was  going  on  to  Aus 
tralia  or  Japan.  He  was  not  so  sure  of 
himself  now.  He  found  himself  looking 
ahead  to  the  night,  when  he  would  see 
Miriam  Kirkstone,  and  he  no  longer  feared 
Shan  Tung  as  he  had  feared  him  a  few 
hours  before.  McDowell  himself  had 
given  him  new  weapons.  He  was  unof 
ficially  on  Shan  Tung's  trail.  McDowell 


THE  RIVER'S  END  97 

had  frankly  placed  the  affair  of  Miriam 
Kirkstone  in  his  hands.  That  it  all  had 
in  some  mysterious  way  something  to  do 
with  himself — John  Keith — urged  him  on 
to  the  adventure. 

He  waited  impatiently  for  the  evening. 
Wallie,  smothered  in  a  great  raincoat,  he 
sent  forth  on  a  general  foraging  expedition 
and  to  bring  up  some  of  Conniston's 
clothes.  It  was  a  quarter  of  eight  when  he 
left  for  Miriam  Kirkstone's  home. 

Even  at  that  early  hour  the  night  lay 
about  him  heavy  and  dark  and  saturated 
with  a  heavy  mist.  From  the  summit  of 
the  hill  he  could  no  longer  make  out  the 
valley  of  the  Saskatchewan.  He  walked 
down  into  a  pit  in  which  the  scattered 
lights  of  the  town  burned  dully  like  distant 
stars.  It  was  a  little  after  eight  when  he 
came  to  the  Kirkstone  house.  It  was  set 
well  back  in  an  iron-fenced  area  thick  with 
trees  and  shrubbery,  and  he  saw  that  the 
porch  light  was  burning  to  show  him  the 
way.  Curtains  were  drawn,  but  a  glow  of 
warm  light  lay  behind  them. 

He  was  sure  that  Miriam  Kirkstone 
must  have  heard  the  crunch  of  his  feet  on 


98  THE  RIVER'S  END 

the  gravel  walk,  for  he  had  scarcely 
touched  the  old-fashioned  knocker  on  the 
door  when  the  door  itself  was  opened.  It 
was  Miriam  who  greeted  him.  Again  he 
held  her  hand  for  a  moment  in  his  own. 

It  was  not  cold,  as  it  had  been  in 
McDowell's  office.  It  was  almost  fever 
ishly  hot,  and  the  pupils  of  the  girl's  eyes 
were  big,  and  dark,  and  filled  with  a 
luminous  fire.  Keith  might  have  thought 
that  coming  in  out  of  the  dark  night  he 
had  startled  her.  But  it  was  not  that. 
She  was  repressing  something  that  had 
preceded  him.  He  thought  that  he  heard 
the  almost  noiseless  closing  of  a  door  at 
the  end  of  the  long  hall,  and  his  nostrils 
caught  the  faint  aroma  of  a  strange  per 
fume.  Between  him  and  the  light  hung  a 
filmy  veil  of  smoke.  He  knew  that  it  had 
come  from  a  cigarette.  There  was  an  un 
easy  note  in  Miss  Kirkstoae's  voice  as  she 
invited  him  to  hang  his  coat  and  hat  on  an 
old-fashioned  rack  near  the  door.  He  took 
his  time,  trying  to  recall  where  he  had 
detected  that  perfume  before.  He  remem 
bered,  with  a  sort  of  shock.  It  was  after 
Shan  Tung  had  left  McDowell's  office. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  99 

She  was  smiling  when  he  turned,  and 
apologizing  again  for  making  her  unusual 
request  that  day. 

"  It  was — quite  unconventional.  But 
I  felt  that  you  would  understand,  Mr. 
Conniston.  I  guess  I  didn't  stop  to  think. 
And  I  am  afraid  of  lightning,  too.  But  I 
wanted  to  see  you.  I  didn't  want  to  wait 
until  tomorrow  to  hear  about  what  hap 
pened  up  there.  Is  it — so  strange?  " 

Afterward  he  could  not  remember  just 
what  sort  of  answer  he  made.  She  turned, 
and  he  followed  her  through  the  big, 
square-cut  door  leading  out  of  the  hall. 
It  was  the  same  door  with  the  great,  slid 
ing  panel  he  had  locked  on  that  fateful 
night,  years  ago,  when  he  had  fought  with 
her  father  and  brother.  In  it,  for  a  mo 
ment,  her  slim  figure  was  profiled  in  a 
frame  of  vivid  light.  Her  mother  must 
have  been  beautiful.  That  was  the  thought 
that  flashed  upon  him  as  the  room  and  its 
tragic  memory  lay  before  him.  Every 
thing  came  back  to  him  vividly,  and  he 
was  astonished  at  the  few  changes  in  it. 
There  was  the  big  chair  with  its  leather 
arms,  in  which  the  overfatted  creature  who 


ioo          THE  RIVER'S  END 

had  been  her  father  was  sitting  when  he 
came  in.  It  was  the  same  table,  too,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  same  odds  and 
ends  were  on  the  mantel  over  the  cobble 
stone  fireplace.  And  there  was  somebody's 
picture  of  the  Madonna  still  hanging  be 
tween  two  windows.  The  Madonna,  like 
the  master  of  the  house,  had  been  too  fat 
to  be  beautiful.  The  son,  an  ogreish  pat 
tern  of  his  father,  had  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  Madonna,  whose  overfat  arms  had 
seemed  to  rest  on  his  shoulders.  He  re 
membered  that. 

The  girl  was  watching  him  closely  when 
he  turned  toward  her.  He  had  frankly 
looked  the  room  over,  without  concealing 
his  intention.  She  was  breathing  a  little 
unsteadily,  and  her  hair  was  shimmering 
gloriously  in  the  light  of  an  overhead 
chandelier.  She  sat  down  with  that  light 
over  her,  motioning  him  to  be  seated  op 
posite  her — across  the  same  table  from 
which  he  had  snatched  the  copper  weight 
that  had  killed  Kirkstone.  He  had  never 
seen  anything  quite  so  steady,  quite  so 
beautiful  as  her  eyes  when  they  looked 
across  at  him.  He  thought  of  McDowell's 


THE  RIVER'S  END  101 

suspicion  and  of  Shan  Tung  and  gripped 
himself  hard.  The  same  strange  perfume 
hung  subtly  on  the  air  he  was  breathing. 
On  a  small  silver  tray  at  his  elbow  lay  the 
ends  of  three  freshly  burned  cigarettes. 

"  Of  course  you  remember  this  room?  " 

He  nodded.  "  Yes.  It  was  night  when 
I  came,  like  this.  The  next  day  I  went 
after  John  Keith." 

She  leaned  toward  him,  her  hands 
clasped  in  front  of  her  on  the  table.  "  You 
will  tell  me  the  truth  about  John  Keith?  " 
she  asked  in  a  low,  tense  voice.  u  You 
swear  that  it  will  be  the  truth?  " 

"  I  will  keep  nothing  back  from  you  that 
I  have  told  Inspector  McDowell,"  he 
answered,  fighting  to  meet  her  eyes 
steadily.  "  I  almost  believe  I  may  tell  you 


more." 


"  Then — did  you  speak  the  truth  when 
you  reported  to  Inspector  McDowell?  Is 
John  Keith  dead?" 

Could  Shan  Tung  meet  those  wonderful 
eyes  as  he  was  meeting  them  now,  he  won 
dered?  Could  he  face  them  and  master 
them,  as  McDowell  had  hinted?  To  Mc 
Dowell  the  lie  had  come  easily  to  his 


THE  RIVER'S  END 

tongue.  It  stuck  in  his  throat  now.  With 
out  giving  him  time  to  prepare  himself 
the  girl  had  shot  straight  for  the  bull's-eye, 
straight  to  the  heart  of  the  thing  that 
meant  life  or  death  to  him,  and  for  a 
moment  he  found  no  answer.  Clearly  he 
was  facing  suspicion.  She  could  not  have 
driven  the  shaft  intuitively.  The  unex 
pectedness  of  the  thing  astonished  him  and 
then  thrilled  him,  and  in  the  thrill  of  it 
he  found  himself  more  than  ever  master  of 
himself. 

"  Would  you  like  to  hear  how  utterly 
John  Keith  is  dead  and  how  he  died?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes.    That  is  what  I  must  know." 

He  noticed  that  her  hands  had  closed. 
Her  slender  fingers  were  clenched  tight. 

"  I  hesitate,  because  I  have  almost  prom 
ised  to  tell  you  even  more  than  I  told 
McDowell,"  he  went  on.  "  And  that  will 
not  be  pleasant  for  you  to  hear.  He  killed 
your  father.  There  can  be  no  sympathy 
in  your  heart  for  John  Keith.  It  will  not 
be  pleasant  for  you  to  hear  that  I  liked 
the  man,  and  that  I  am  sorry  he  is  dead." 

"  Go  on — please." 


THE  RIVER'S  END  103 

Her  hands  unclasped.  Her  fingers  lay 
limp.  Something  faded  slowly  out  of  her 
face.  It  was  as  if  she  had  hoped  for 
something,  and  that  hope  was  dying. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  she  had  hoped 
he  would  say  that  John  Keith  was 
alive? 

"  Did  you  know  this  man?  "  he  asked. 
"This  John  Keith?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No.  I  was  away 
at  school  for  many  years.  I  don't  remem 
ber  him." 

"  But  he  knew  you — that  is,  he  had  seen 
you,"  said  Keith.  "  He  used  to  talk  to 
me  about  you  in  those  days  when  he  was 
helpless  and  dying.  He  said  that  he  was 
sorry  for  you,  and  that  only  because  of  you 
did  he  ever  regret  the  justice  he  brought 
upon  your  father.  You  see  I  speak  his 
words.  He  called  it  justice.  He  never 
weakened  on  that  point.  You  have  prob 
ably  never  heard  his  part  of  the  story." 

"  No." 

The  one  word  forced  itself  from  her 
lips.  She  was  expecting  him  to  go  on,  and 
waited,  her  eyes  never  for  an  instant  leav 
ing  his  face. 


io4          THE  RIVER'S  END 

He  did  not  repeat  the  story  exactly  as 
he  had  told  it  to  McDowell.      The  facts 
were  the  same,  but  the  living  fire  of  his 
own  sympathy  and  his  own  conviction  were 
in    them    now.     He    told    it    purely    from 
Keith's  point  of  view,  and  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone's   face   grew  whiter,   and   her   hands 
grew  tense  again,  as  she  listened  for  the 
first  time   to   Keith's   own   version   of   the 
tragedy  of  the  room  in  which  they  were 
sitting.      And  then  he  followed  Keith  up 
into  that  land  of  ice  and  snow  and  gibber 
ing  Eskimos,   and   from  that    moment  he 
was  no  longer  Keith  but  spoke  with   the 
Hps  of  Conniston.     He  described  the  sun 
less   weeks   and   months   of  madness   until 
the  girl's  eyes  seemed   to  catch  fire,   and 
when  at  last  he  came  to  the  little  cabin  in 
which   Conniston  had  died,  he  was  again 
John    Keith.     He   could   not  have   talked 
about  himself  as  he  did  about  the  English 
man.     And   when   he   came   to   the    point 
where  he  buried  Conniston  under  the  floor, 
a  dry,  broken  sob  broke  in  upon  him  from 
across  the  table.     But  there  were  no  tears 
in  the  girl's  eyes.     Tears,  perhaps,  would 
have  hidden   from  him  the  desolation   he 


THE  RIVER'S  END  105 

saw  there.  But  she  did  not  give  in.  Her 
white  throat  twitched.  She  tried  to  draw 
her  breath  steadily.  And  then  she  said: 

"And  that — was  John  Keith!" 

He  bowed  his  head  in  confirmation  of 
the  lie,  and,  thinking  of  Conniston,  he  said: 
"  He  was  the  finest  gentleman  I  ever  knew. 
And  I  am  sorry  he  is  dead." 

"  And  I,  too,  am  sorry." 

She  was  reaching  a  hand  across  the  table 
to  him,  slowly,  hesitatingly.  He  stared  at 
her. 

"  You  mean  that?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  sorry." 

He  took  her  hand.  For  a  moment  her 
fingers  tightened  about  his  own.  Then 
they  relaxed  and  drew  gently  away  from 
him.  In  that  moment  he  saw  a  sudden 
change  come  into  her  face.  She  was  look 
ing  beyond  him,  over  his  right  shoulder. 
Her  eyes  widened,  her  pupils  dilated  under 
his  gaze,  and  she  held  her  breath.  With 
the  swift  caution  of  the  man-hunted  he 
turned.  The  room  was  empty  behind  him. 
There  was  nothing  but  a  window  at  his 
back.  The  rain  was  drizzling  against  it, 
and  he  noticed  that  the  curtain  was  not 


106          THE  RIVER'S  END 

drawn,  as  they  were  drawn  at  the  other 
windows.  Even  as  he  looked,  the  girl 
went  to  it  and  pulled  down  the  shade. 
He  knew  that  she  had  seen  something, 
something  that  had  startled  her  for  a 
moment,  but  he  did  not  question  her.  In 
stead,  as  if  he  had  noticed  nothing,  he 
asked  if  he  might  light  a  cigar. 

"  I  see  someone  smokes,"  he  excused 
himself,  nodding  at  the  cigarette  butts. 

He  was  watching  her  closely  and  would 
have  recalled  the  words  in  the  next  breath. 
He  had  caught  her.  Her  brother  was  out 
of  town.  And  there  was  a  distinctly  un- 
American  perfume  in  the  smoke  that  some 
one  had  left  in  the  room.  He  saw  the  bit 
of  red  creeping  up  her  throat  into  her 
cheeks,  and  his  conscience  shamed  him.  It 
was  difficult  for  him  not  to  believe  Mc 
Dowell  now.  Shan  Tung  had  been  there. 
It  was  Shan  Tung  who  had  left  the  hall  as 
he  entered.  Probably  it  was  Shan  Tung 
whose  face  she  had  seen  at  the  window. 

What  she  said  amazed  him.  "  Yes,  it  is 
a  shocking  habit  of  mine,  Mr.  Conniston. 
I  learned  to  smoke  in  the  East.  Is  it  so 
very  bad,  do  you  think?  " 


THE  RIVER'S  END  107 

He  fairly  shook  himself.  He  wanted  to 
say,  "  You  beautiful  little  liar,  I'd  like  to 
call  your  bluff  right  now,  but  I  won't,  be 
cause  I'm  sorry  for  you!"  Instead,  he 
nipped  off  the  end  of  his  cigar,  and  said : 

"  In  England,  you  know,  the  ladies 
smoke  a  great  deal.  Personally  I  may  be 
a  little  prejudiced.  I  don't  know  that  it  is 
sinful,  especially  when  one  uses  such  good 
judgment — in  orientals."  And  then  he  was 
powerless  to  hold  himself  back.  He  smiled 
at  her  frankly,  unafraid.  "  I  don't  believe 
you  smoke,"  he  added. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  still  smiling  across 
at  her,  like  a  big  brother  waiting  for  her 
confidence.  She  was  not  alarmed  at  the 
directness  with  which  he  had  guessed  the 
truth.  She  was  no  longer  embarrassed. 
She  seemed  for  a  moment  to  be  looking 
through  him  and  into  him,  a  strange  and 
yearning  desire  glowing  dully  in  her  eyes. 
He  saw  her  throat  twitching  again,  and  he 
was  filled  with  an  infinite  compassion  for 
this  daughter  of  the  man  he  had  killed. 
But  he  kept  it  within  himself.  He  had 
gone  far  enough.  It  was  for  her  to  speak. 
At  the  door  she  gave  him  her  hand  again, 


io8          THE  RIVER'S  END 

bidding  him  good-night.  She  looked 
pathetically  helpless,  and  he  thought  that 
someone  ought  to  be  there  with  the  right 
to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  comfort  her. 

"  You  will  come  again?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Yes,  I  am  coming  again,"  he  said. 
11  Good-night." 

He  passed  out  into  the  drizzle.  The 
door  closed  behind  him,  but  not  before 
there  came  to  him  once  more  that  choking 
sob  from  the  throat  of  Miriam  Kirkstone. 


IX 


KEITH'S  hand  was  on  the  butt  of  his 
revolver  as  he  made  his  way  through 
the  black  night.  He  could  not  see  the  gravel 
path  under  his  feet  but  could  only  feel  it. 
Something  that  was  more  than  a  guess 
made  him  feel  that  Shan  Tung  was  not 
far  away,  and  he  wondered  if  it  was  a  pre 
monition,  and  what  it  meant.  With  the 
keen  instinct  of  a  hound  he  was  scenting 
for  a  personal  danger.  He  passed  through 
the  gate  and  began  the  downward  slope 
toward  town,  and  not  until  then  did  he 
begin  adding  things  together  and  analyz 
ing  the  situation  as  it  had  transformed 
:tself  since  he  had  stood  in  the  door  of 
the  Shack,  welcoming  the  storm  from  the 
western  mountains.  He  thought  that  he 
had  definitely  made  up  his  mind  then;  now 
it  was  chaotic.  He  could  not  leave  Prince 
Albert  immediately,  as  the  inspiration  had 
moved  him  a  few  hours  before.  Mc- 
dowell  had  practically  given  him  an  as- 

IOQ 


no          THE  RIVER'S  END 

signment.  And  Miss  Kirkstone  was  hold 
ing  him.  Also  Shan  Tung.  He  felt 
within  himself  the  sensation  of  one  who 
was  traveling  on  very  thin  ice,  yet  he 
could  not  tell  just  where  or  why  it  was 
thin. 

"  Just  a  fool  hunch,"  he  assured  himself. 
"  Why  the  deuce  should  I  let  a  confounded 
Chinaman  and  a  pretty  girl  get  on  my 
nerves  at  this  stage  of  the  game?  If  it 
wasn't  for  McDowell " 

And  there  he  stopped.  He  had  fought 
too  long  at  the  raw  edge  of  things  to  allow 
himself  to  be  persuaded  by  delusions,  and 
he  confessed  that  it  was  John  Keith  who 
was  holding  him,  that  in  some  inexplicable 
way  John  Keith,  though  officially  dead  and 
buried,  was  mixed  up  in  a  mysterious  af 
fair  in  which  Miriam  Kirkstone  and  Shan 
Tung  were  the  moving  factors.  And  inas 
much  as  he  was  now  Derwent  Conniston 
and  no  longer  John  Keith,  he  took  the 
logical  point  of  arguing  that  the  affair  was 
none  of  his  business,  and  that  he  could  go 
on  to  the  mountains  if  he  pleased.  Only  in 
that  direction  could  he  see  ice  of  a  sane 
and  perfect  thickness,  to  carry  out  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  in 

metaphor  in  his  head.  He  could  report 
indifferently  to  McDowell,  forget  Miss 
Kirkstone,  and  disappear  from  the  menace 
of  Shan  Tung's  eyes.  John  Keith,  he  re 
peated,  would  be  officially  dead,  and  being 
dead,  the  law  would  have  no  further  inter 
est  in  him. 

He  prodded  himself  on  with  this 
thought  as  he  fumbled  his  way  through 
darkness  down  into  town.  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone  in  her  golden  way  was  alluring;  the 
mystery  that  shadowed  the  big  house  on 
the  hill  was  fascinating  to  his  hunting  in* 
stincts;  he  had  the  desire,  growing  fast,  to 
come  at  grips  with  Shan  Tung.  But  he 
had  not  foreseen  these  things,  and  neither 
had  Conniston  foreseen  them.  They  had 
planned  only  for  the  salvation  of  John 
Keith's  precious  neck,  and  tonight  he  had 
almost  forgotten  the  existence  of  that  un 
pleasant  reality,  the  hangman.  Truth  set 
tled  upon  him  with  depressing  effect,  and 
an  infinite  loneliness  turned  his  mind  again 
to  the  mountains  of  his  dreams. 

The  town  was  empty  of  life.  Lights 
glowed  here  and  there  through  the  mist; 
now  and  then  a  door  opened;  down  near 


ii2  THE  RIVER'S  END 

the  river  a  dog  howled  forlornly.  Every 
thing  was  shut  against  him.  There  were 
no  longer  homes  where  he  might  call  and 
be  greeted  with  a  cheery  "  Good  evening, 
Keith.  Glad  to  see  you.  Come  in  out  of 
the  wet."  He  could  not  even  go  to  Dug- 
gan,  his  old  river  friend.  He  realized  now 
that  his  old  friends  were  the  very  ones  he 
must  avoid  most  carefully  to  escape  self- 
betrayal.  Friendship  no  longer  existed  for 
him;  the  town  was  a  desert  without  an 
oasis  where  he  might  reclaim  some  of  the 
things  he  had  lost.  Memories  he  had 
treasured  gave  place  to  bitter  ones.  His 
own  townfolk,  of  all  people,  were  his 
readiest  enemies,  and  his  loneliness 
clutched  him  tighter,  until  the  air  itself 
seemed  thick  and  difficult  to  breathe.  For 
the  time  Derwent  Conniston  was  utterly 
submerged  in  the  overwhelming  yearnings 
of  John  Keith. 

He  dropped  into  a  dimly  lighted  shop 
to  purchase  a  box  of  cigars.  It  was  de 
serted  except  for  the  proprietor.  His 
elbow  bumped  into  a  telephone.  He 
would  call  up  Wallie  and  tell  him  to 
have  a  good  fire  waiting  for  him,  and  in 


THE  RIVER'S  END  113 

the  company  of  that  fire  he  would  do  a 
lot  of  thinking  before  getting  into  com 
munication  with  McDowell. 

It  was  not  Wallie  who  answered  him, 
and  he  was  about  to  apologize  for  getting 
the  wrong  number  when  the  voice  at  the 
other  end  asked, 

"  Is  that  you,  Conniston?  " 

It  was  McDowell.  The  discovery  gave 
him  a  distinct  shock.  What  could  the  In 
spector  be  doing  up  at  the  Shack  in  his 
absence?  Besides,  there  was  an  imperative 
demand  in  the  question  that  shot  at  him 
over  the  wire.  McDowell  had  half 
shouted  it. 

"  Yes,  it's  I,"  he  said  rather  feebly. 
"  I'm  down-town,  stocking  up  on  some 
cigars.  What's  the  excitement?" 

"  Don't  ask  questions  but  hustle  up 
here,"  McDowell  fired  back.  "  I've  got 
the  surprise  of  your  life  waiting  for  you!  " 

Keith  heard  the  receiver  at  the  other  end 
go  up  with  a  bang.  Something  had  hap 
pened  at  the  Shack,  and  McDowell  was 
excited.  He  went  out  puzzled.  For  some 
reason  he  was  in  no  great  hurry  to  reach 
the  top  of  the  hill.  He  was  beginning  to 


ii4          THE  RIVER'S  END 

expect  things  to  happen — too  many  things 
— and  in  the  stress  of  the  moment  he  felt 
the  incongruity  of  the  friendly  box  of 
cigars  tucked  under  his  arm.  The  hard 
est  luck  he  had  ever  run  up  against  had 
never  quite  killed  his  sense  of  humor,  and 
he  chuckled.  His  fortunes  were  indeed  at 
a  low  ebb  when  he  found  a  bit  of  comfort 
in  hugging  a  box  of  cigars  still  closer. 

He  could  see  that  every  room  in  the 
Shack  was  lighted,  when  he  came  to  the 
crest  of  the  slope,  but  the  shades  were 
drawn.  He  wondered  if  Wallie  had 
pulled  down  the  curtains,  or  if  it  was  a 
caution  on  McDowell's  part  against  pos 
sible  espionage.  Suspicion  made  him 
transfer  the  box  of  cigars  to  his  left  arm 
so  that  his  right  was  free.  Somewhere  in 
the  darkness  Conniston's  voice  was  urging 
him,  as  it  had  urged  him  up  in  the  cabin 
on  the  Barren:  "  Don't  walk  into  a  noose. 
If  it  comes  to  a  fight,  fight!  " 

And  then  something  happened  that 
brought  his  heart  to  a  dead  stop.  He  was 
close  to  the  door.  His  ear  was  against 
it.  And  he  was  listening  to  a  voice.  It 
was  not  Wallie's,  and  it  was  not  the  iron 


THE  RIVER'S  END  115 

man's.      It   was    a    woman's    voice,    or    a 
girl's. 

He  opened  the  door  and  entered,  taking 
swiftly  the  two  or  three  steps  that  carried 
him  across  the  tiny  vestibule  to  the  big 
room.  His  entrance  was  so  sudden  that 
the  tableau  in  front  of  him  was  unbroken 
for  a  moment.  Birch  logs  were  blazing  in 
the  fireplace.  In  the  big  chair  sat 
McDowell,  partly  turned,  a  smoking  cigar 
poised  in  his  fingers,  staring  at  him. 
Seated  on  a  footstool,  with  her  chin  in  the 
cup  of  her  hands,  was  a  girl.  At  first, 
blinded  a  little  by  the  light,  Keith  thought 
she  was  a  child,  a  remarkably  pretty  child 
with  wide-open,  half-startled  eyes  and  a 
wonderful  crown  of  glowing,  brown  hair 
in  which  he  could  still  see  the  shimmer  of 
wet.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  brushed  the 
water  from  his  eyes.  McDowell  did  not 
move.  Slowly  the  girl  rose  to  her  feet. 
It  was  then  that  Keith  saw  she  was  not  a 
child.  Perhaps  she  was  eighteen,  a  slim, 
tired-looking,  little  thing,  wonderfully 
pretty,  and  either  on  the  verge  of  laughing 
or  crying.  Perhaps  it  was  halfway  be 
tween.  To  his  growing  discomfiture  she 


n6  THE  RIVER'S  END 

came  slowly  toward  him  with  a  strange 
and  wonderful  look  in  her  face.  And 
McDowell  still  sat  there  staring. 

His  heart  thumped  with  an  emotion  he 
had  no  time  to  question.  In  those  wide- 
open,  shining  eyes  of  the  girl  he  sensed 
unspeakable  tragedy — for  him.  And  then 
the  girl's  arms  were  reaching  out  to  him, 
and  she  was  crying  in  that  voice  that 
trembled  and  broke  between  sobs  and 
laughter : 

"  Derry,  don't  you  know  me?  Don't  you 
know  me?  " 

He  stood  like  one  upon  whom  had  fallen 
the  curse  of  the  dumb.  She  was  within 
arm's  reach  of  him,  her  face  white  as  a 
cameo,  her  eyes  glowing  like  newly-fired 
stars,  her  slim  throat  quivering,  and  her 
arms  reaching  toward  him. 

"  Derry,  don't  you  know  me?  Don't  you 
know  me?  " 

It  was  a  sob,  a  cry.  McDowell  had 
risen.  Overwhelmingly  there  swept  upon 
Keith  an  impulse  that  rocked  him  to  the 
depth  of  his  soul.  He  opened  his  arms, 
and  in  an  instant  the  girl  was  in  them. 
Quivering,  and  sobbing,  and  laughing  she 


THE  RIVER'S  END  117 

was  on  his  breast.  He  felt  the  crush  of  her 
soft  hair  against  his  face,  her  arms  were 
about  his  neck,  and  she  was  pulling  his 
head  down  and  kissing  him — not  once  or 
twice,  but  again  and  again,  passionately 
and  without  shame.  His  own  arms 
tightened.  He  heard  McDowell's  voice— 
a  distant  and  non:essential  voice  it  seemed 
to  him  now — saying  that  he  would  leave 
them  alone  and  that  he  would  see  them 
again  tomorrow.  He  heard  the  door  open 
and  close.  McDowell  was  gone.  And 
the  soft  little  arms  were  still  tight  about 
his  neck.  The  sweet  crush  of  hair  smoth 
ered  his  face,  and  on  his  breast  she  was 
crying  now  like  a  baby.  He  held  her 
closer.  A  wild  exultation  seized  upon  him, 
and  every  fiber  in  his  body  responded  to 
its  thrill,  as  tautly-stretched  wires  respond 
to  an  electrical  storm.  It  passed  swiftly, 
burning  itself  out,  and  his  heart  was  left 
dead.  He  heard  a  sound  made  by  Wallie 
out  in  the  kitchen.  He  saw  the  walls  of 
the  room  again,  the  chair  in  which  Mc 
Dowell  had  sat,  the  blazing  fire.  His  arms 
relaxed.  The  girl  raised  her  head  and  put 
her  two  hands  to  his  face,  looking  at  him 


ii8  THE  RIVER'S  END 

with  eyes  which  Keith  no  longer  failed  to 
recognize.  They  were  the  eyes  that  had 
looked  at  him  out  of  the  faded  picture  in 
Conniston's  watch. 

"Kiss  me,  Derry!" 

It  was  impossible  not  to  obey.  Her  lips 
clung  to  him.  There  was  love,  adoration, 
in  their  caress. 

And  then  she  was  crying  again,  with  her 
arms  around  him  tight  and  her  face  hidden 
against  him,  and  he  picked  her  up  as  he 
would  have  lifted  a  child,  and  carried  her 
to  the  big  chair  in  front  of  the  fire.  He 
put  her  in  it  and  stood  before  her,  trying 
to  smile.  Her  hair  had  loosened,  and  the 
shining  mass  of  it  had  fallen  about  her 
face  and  to  her  shoulders.  She  was  more 
than  ever  like  a  little  girl  as  she  looked 
up  at  him,  her  eyes  worshiping  him,  her 
lips  trying  to  smile,  and  one  little  hand 
dabbing  her  eyes  with  a  tiny  handkerchief 
that  was  already  wet  and  crushed. 

"  You — you  don't  seem  very  glad  to  see 
me,  Derry." 

"  I — I'm  just  stunned,"  he  managed  to 
say.  "  You  see 

"  It  is   a   shocking   surprise,    Derry.      I 


THE  RIVER'S  END  119 

meant  it  to  be.  I've  been  planning  it  for 
years  and  years  and  years!  Please  take  off 
your  coat — it's  dripping  wet! — and  sit 
down  near  me,  on  that  stool!  " 

Again  he  obeyed.  He  was  big  for  the 
stool. 

"  You  are  glad  to  see  me,  aren't  you, 
Derry?" 

She  was  leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  big 
chair,  and  one  of  her  hands  went  to  his 
damp  hair,  brushing  it  back.  It  was  a 
wonderful  touch.  He  had  never  felt  any 
thing  like  it  before  in  his  life,  and  involun 
tarily  he  bent  his  head  a  little.  In  a 
moment  she  had  hugged  it  up  close  to  her. 

"You  are  glad,  aren't  you,  Derry?  Say 
'  yes.'  " 

"  Yes,"  he  whispered. 

He  could  feel  the  swift,  excited  beating 
of  her  heart. 

"  And  I'm  never  going  back  again — to 
them"  he  heard  her  say,  something  sud 
denly  low  and  fierce  in  her  voice. 
"  Never/  I'm  going  to  stay  with  you 
always,  Derry.  Always!" 

She  put  her  lips  close  to  his  ear  and 
whispered  mysteriously.  "  They  don't 


120  TKE  RIVER'S  END 

know  where  I  am.  Maybe  they  think  I'm 
dead.  But  Colonel  Reppington  knows.  I 
told  him  I  was  coming  if  I  had  to  walk 
round  the  world  to  get  here.  He  said  he'd 
keep  my  secret,  and  gave  me  letters  to  some 
awfully  nice  people  over  here.  I've  been 
over  six  months.  And  when  1  saw  your 
name  in  one  of  those  dry-looking,  blue- 
covered,  paper  books  the  Mounted  Police 
get  out,  I  just  dropped  down  on  my  knees 
and  thanked  the  good  Lord,  Derry.  I 
knew  I'd  find  you  somewhere — sometime. 
I  haven't  slept  two  winks  since  leaving 
Montreal!  And  I  guess  I  really  fright 
ened  that  big  man  with  the  terrible  mus 
taches,  for  when  I  rushed  in  on  him  to 
night,  dripping  wet,  and  said,  *  I'm  Miss 
Mary  Josephine  Conniston,  and  I  want  my 
brother,'  his  eyes  grew  bigger  and  bigger 
until  I  thought  they  were  surely  going  to 
pop  out  at  me.  And  then  he  swore.  He 
said,  l  My  Gawd,  I  didn't  know  he  had  a 
sister!"' 

Keith's  heart  was  choking  him.  So  this 
wonderful  little  creature  was  Derwent 
Conniston's  sister!  And  she  was  claiming 
him.  She  thought  he  was  her  brother! 


THE  RIVER'S  END  121 

" — And  I  love  him  because  he  treated 
me  so  nicely,"  she  was  saying.  "  He  really 
hugged  me,  Derry.  I  guess  he  didn't  think 
I  was  away  past  eighteen.  And  he 
wrapped  me  up  in  a  big  oilskin,  and  we 
came  up  here.  And — O  Derry,  Derry— 
why  did  you  do  it?  Why  didn't  you  let 
me  know?  Don't  you — want  me  here?  " 

He  heard,  but  his  mind  had  swept  be 
yond  her  to  the  little  cabin  in  the  edge  of 
the  Great  Barren  where  Derwent  Connis- 
ton  lay  dead.  He  heard  the  wind  moan 
ing,  as  it  had  moaned  that  night  the  Eng 
lishman  died,  and  he  saw  again  that  last 
and  unspoken  yearning  in  Conniston's  eyes. 
And  he  knew  now  why  Conniston's  face 
had  followed  him  through  the  gray  gloom 
and  why  he  had  felt  the  mysterious  pres 
ence  of  him  long  after  he  had  gone.  Some 
thing  that  was  Conniston  entered  into  him 
now.  In  the  throbbing  chaos  of  his  brain 
a  voice  was  whispering,  "  She  is  yours,  she 
is  yours." 

His  arms  tightened  about  her,  and  a 
voice  that  was  not  unlike  John  Keith's 
voice  said:  "Yes,  I  want  you!  I  want 
you!" 


X 


FOR  a  space  Keith  did  not  raise  his 
head.  The  girl's  arms  were  about 
him  close,  and  he  could  feel  the  warm 
pressure  of  her  cheek  against  his  hair. 
The  realization  of  his  crime  was  already 
weighing  his  soul  like  a  piece  of  lead,  yet 
out  of  that  soul  had  come  the  cry,  "  I 
want  you — I  want  you !  "  and  it  still  beat 
with  the  voice  of  that  immeasurable  yearn 
ing  even  as  his  lips  grew  tight  and  he  saw 
himself  the  monstrous  fraud  he  was.  This 
strange  little,  wonderful  creature  had  come 
to  him  from  out  of  a  dead  world,  and  her 
lips,  and  her  arms,  and  the  soft  caress  of 
her  hands  had  sent  his  own  world  reeling 
about  his  head  so  swiftly  that  he  had  been 
drawn  into  a  maelstrom  to  which  he  could 
find  no  bottom.  Before  McDowell  she 
had  claimed  him.  And  before  McDowell 
he  had  accepted  her.  He  had  lived  the 
great  lie  as  he  had  strengthened  himself 
to  live  it,  but  success  was  no  longer  a 

122 


THE  RIVER'S  END  123 

triumph.  There  rushed  into  his  brain  like 
a  consuming  flame  the  desire  to  confess  the 
truth,  to  tell  this  girl  whose  arms  were 
about  him  that  he  was  not  Derwent  Con- 
niston,  her  brother,  but  John  Keith,  the 
murderer.  Something  drove  it  back,  some 
thing  that  was  still  more  potent,  more  de 
manding,  the  overwhelming  urge  of  that 
righting  force  in  every  man  which  calls  for 
self-preservation. 

Slowly  he  drew  himself  away  from  her, 
knowing  that  for  this  night  at  least  his 
back  was  to  the  wall.  She  was  smiling  at 
him  from  out  of  the  big  chair,  and  in  spite 
of  himself  he  smiled  back  at  her. 

"  I  must  send  you  to  bed  now,  Mary 
Josephine,  and  tomorrow  we  will  talk 
everything  over,"  he  said.  "  You're  so 
tired  you're  ready  to  fall  asleep  in  a 


minute." 


Tiny,  puckery  lines  came  into  her  pretty 
forehead.  It  was  a  trick  he  loved  at  first 
sight. 

11  Do  you  know,  Derry,  I  almost  believe 
you've  changed  a  lot.  You  used  to  call 
me  (  Juddy.'  But  now  that  I'm  grown  up, 
I  think  I  like  Mary  Josephine  better, 


124  THE  RIVER'S  END 

though  you  oughtn't  to  be  quite  so  stiff 
about  it.  Derry,  tell  me  honest — are  you 
afraid  of  me?  " 

"Afraid  of  you!" 

"  Yes,  because  I'm  grown  up.  Don't 
you  like  me  as  well  as  you  did  one,  two, 
three,  seven  years  ago?  If  you  did,  you 
wouldn't  tell  me  to  go  to  bed  just  a  few 
minutes  after  you've  seen  me  for  the  first 

time  in  all  those — those Derry,  I'm 

going  to  cry!  I  am!" 

"Don't,"  he  pleaded.     "Please  don't!" 

He  felt  like  a  hundred-horned  bull  in  a 
very  small  china  shop.  Mary  Josephine 
herself  saved  the  day  for  him  by  jumping 
suddenly  from  the  big  chair,  forcing  him 
into  it,  and  snuggling  herself  on  his 
knees. 

"There!"  She  looked  at  a  tiny  watch 
on  her  wrist.  "  We're  going  to  bed  in  two 
hours.  We've  got  a  lot  to  talk  about  that 
won't  wait  until  tomorrow,  Derry.  You 
understand  what  I  mean.  I  couldn't  sleep 
until  you've  told  me.  And  you  must  tell 
me  the  truth.  I'll  love  you  just  the  same, 
no  matter  what  it  is.  Derry,  Derry,  why 
did  you  do  it?  " 


THE  RIVER'S  END  125 

"  Do  what?  "  he  asked  stupidly. 

The  delicious  softness  went  out  of  the 
slim  little  body  on  his  knees.  It  grew 
rigid.  He  looked  hopelessly  into  the  fire, 
but  he  could  feel  the  burning  inquiry  in 
the  girl's  eyes.  He  sensed  a  swift  change 
passing  through  her.  She  seemed  scarcely 
to  breathe,  and  he  knew  that  his  answer 
had  been  more  than  inadequate.  It  either 
confessed  or  feigned  an  ignorance  of  some 
thing  which  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  him  to  forget  had  he  been  Conniston. 
He  looked  up  at  her  at  last.  The  joyous 
flush  had  gone  out  of  her  face.  It  was  a 
little  drawn.  Her  hand,  which  had  been 
snuggling  his  neck  caressingly,  slipped 
down  from  his  shoulder. 

"  I  guess — you'd  rather  I  hadn't  come, 
Derry,"  she  said,  fighting  to  keep  a  break 
out  of  her  voice.  "  And  I'll  go  back,  if 
you  want  to  send  me.  But  I've  always 
dreamed  of  your  promise,  that  some  day 
you'd  send  for  me  or  come  and  get  me, 
and  I'd  like  to  know  'why  before  you  tell 
me  to  go.  Why  have  you  hidden  away 
from  me  all  these  years,  leaving  me  among 
those  who  you  knew  hated  me  as  they 


[126          THE  RIVER'S  END 

hated  you?  Was  it  because  you  didn't 

care?  Or  was  it  because — because " 

She  bent  her  head  and  whispered  strangely, 
"  Was  it  because  you  were  afraid?  " 

"Afraid?"  he  repeated  slowly,  staring 

again  into  the  fire.  "  Afraid "  He 

was  going  to  add  "  Of  what?  "  but  caught 
the  words  and  held  them  back. 

The  birch  fire  leaped  up  with  a  sudden 
roar  into  the  chimney,  and  from  the  heart 
of  the  flame  he  caught  again  that  strange 
and  all-pervading  thrill,  the  sensation  of 
Derwent  Conniston's  presence  very  near 
to  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  for  an 
instant  he  caught  a  flash  of  Conniston's 
face,  and  somewhere  within  him  was  a 
whispering  which  was  Conniston's  voice. 
He  was  possessed  by  a  weird  and  master 
ful  force  that  swept  over  him  and  con 
quered  him,  a  thing  that  was  more  than 
intuition  and  greater  than  physical  desire. 
It  was  inspiration.  He  knew  that  the 
Englishman  would  have  him  play  the 
game  as  he  was  about  to  play  it  now. 

The  girl  was  waiting  for  him  to  answer. 
Her  lips  had  grown  a  little  more  tense. 
His  hesitation,  the  restraint  in  his  welcome 


THE  RIVER'S  END  127 

of  her,  and  his  apparent  desire  to  evade 
that  mysterious  something  which  seemed 
to  mean  so  much  to  her  had  brought  a 
shining  pain  into  her  eyes.  He  had  seen 
such  a  look  in  the  eyes  of  creatures 
physically  hurt.  He  reached  out  with  his 
hands  and  brushed  back  the  thick,  soft 
hair  from  about  her  face.  His  fingers 
buried  themselves  in  the  silken  disarray, 
and  he  looked  for  a  moment  straight  into 
her  eyes  before  he  spoke. 

"  Little  girl,  will  you  tell  me  the  truth?  " 
he  asked.  "  Do  I  look  like  the  old  Der- 
went  Conniston,  your  Derwent  Conniston? 
Do  I?" 

Her  voice  was  small  and  troubled,  yet 
the  pain  was  slowly  fading  out  of  her  eyes 
as  she  felt  the  passionate  embrace  of  his 
fingers  in  her  hair.  "  No.  You  are 
changed." 

"  Yes,  I  am  changed.  A  part  of  Der 
went  Conniston  died  seven  years  ago. 
That  part  of  him  was  dead  until  he  came 
through  that  door  tonight  and  saw  you. 
And  then  it  flickered  back  into  life.  It  is 
returning  slowly,  slowly.  That  which  was 
dead  is  beginning  to  rouse  itself,  beginning 


128  THE  RIVER'S  END 

to  remember.     See,  little  Mary  Josephine. 
It  was  this!  " 

He  drew  a  hand  to  his  forehead  and 
placed  a  finger  on  the  scar.  "  I  got  that 
seven  years  ago.  It  killed  a  half  of  Der- 
went  Conniston,  the  part  that  should  have 
lived.  Do  you  understand?  Until  to 
night " 

Her  eyes  startled  him,  they  were  grow 
ing  so  big  and  dark  and  staring,  living 
fires  of  understanding  and  horror.  It  was 
hard  for  him  to  go  on  with  the  lie.  "  For 
many  weeks  I  was  dead,"  he  struggled  on. 
"  And  when  I  came  to  life  physically,  I 
had  forgotten  a  great  deal.  I  had  my 
name,  my  identity,  but  only  ghastly 
dreams  and  visions  of  what  had  gone  be 
fore.  I  remembered  you,  but  it  was  in  a 
dream,  a  strange  and  haunting  dream  that 
was  with  me  always.  It  seems  to  me  that 
for  an  age  I  have  been  seeking  for  a  face, 
a  voice,  something  I  loved  above  all  else 
on  earth,  something  which  was  always 
near  and  yet  was  never  found.  It  was 
you,  Mary  Josephine,  you!  " 
i  Was  it  the  real  Derwent  Conniston 
speaking  now?  He  felt  again  that  over- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  129 

whelming  force  from  within  which  was  not 
his  own.  The  thing  that  had  begun  as  a 
lie  struck  him  now  as  a  thing  that  was 
truth.  It  was  he,  John  Keith,  who  had 
been  questing  and  yearning  and  hoping. 
It  was  John  Keith,  and  not  Conniston,  who 
had  returned  into  a  world  filled  with  a 
desolation  of  loneliness,  and  it  was  to  John 
Keith  that  a  beneficent  God  had  sent  this 
wonderful  creature  in  an  hour  that  was 
blackest  in  its  despair.  He  was  not  lying 
now.  He  was  fighting.  He  was  fighting 
to  keep  for  himself  the  one  atom  of  human 
ity  that  meant  more  to  him  than  all  the 
rest  of  the  human  race,  fighting  to  keep  a 
great  love  that  had  come  to  him  out  of  a 
world  in  which  he  no  longer  had  a  friend 
or  a  home,  and  to  that  fight  his  soul  went 
out  as  a  drowning  man  grips  at  a  spar  on 
a  sea.  As  the  girl's  hands  came  to  his  face 
and  he  heard  the  yearning,  grief-filled  cry 
of  his  name  on  her  lips,  he  no  longer 
sensed  the  things  he  was  saying,  but  held 
her  close  in  his  arms,  kissing  her  mouth, 
and  her  eyes,  and  her  hair,  and  repeating 
over  and  over  again  that  now  he  had  found 
her  he  would  never  give  her  up.  Her 


•i3o          THE  RIVER'S  END 

arms  clung  to  him.  They  were  like  two 
children  brought  together  after  a  long 
separation,  and  Keith  knew  that  Connis- 
ton's  love  for  this  girl  who  was  his  sister 
must  have  been  a  splendid  thing.  And  his 
lie  had  saved  Conniston  as  well  as  himself. 
There  had  been  no  time  to  question  the 
reason  for  the  Englishman's  neglect — for 
his  apparent  desertion  of  the  girl  who  had 
come  across  the  sea  to  find  him.  Tonight 
it  was  sufficient  that  he  was  Conniston,  and 
that  to  him  the  girl  had  fallen  as  a 
precious  heritage. 

He  stood  up  with  her  at  last,  holding  her 
away  from  him  a  little  so  that  he  could 
look  into  her  face  wet  with  tears  and  shin 
ing  with  happiness.  She  reached  up  a 
hand  to  his  face,  so  that  it  touched  the 
scar,  and  in  her  eyes  he  saw  an  infinite 
pity,  a  luminously  tender  glow  of  love  and 
sympathy  and  understanding  that  no  meas 
urements  could  compass.  Gently  her  hand 
stroked  his  scarred  forehead.  He  felt  his 
old  world  slipping  away  from  under  his 
feet,  and  with  his  triumph  there  surged 
over  him  a  thankfulness  for  that  inde 
finable  something  that  had  come  to  him 


THE  RIVER'S  END  i3c 

in  time  to  give  him  the  strength  and  the 
courage  to  lie.  For  she  believed  him, 
utterly  and  without  the  shadow  of  a  sus 
picion  she  believed  him. 

"  Tomorrow  you  will  help  me  to  remem 
ber  a  great  many  things,"  he  said.  "  And 
now  will  you  let  me  send  you  to  bed,  Mary 
Josephine?  " 

She  was  looking  at  the  scar.  "  And  all 
those  years  I  didn't  know,"  she  whispered. 
"  I  didn't  know.  They  told  me  you  were 
dead,  but  I  knew  it  was  a  lie.  It  was 
Colonel  Reppington—  She  saw  some 

thing  in  his  face  that  stopped  her. 
"  Derry,  don't  you  remember?  n 

"  I  shall — tomorrow.  But  tonight  I  can 
see  nothing  and  think  of  nothing  but  you. 
Tomorrow- 
She  drew  his  head  down  swiftly  and 
kissed  the  brand  made  by  the  heated  barrel 
of  the  Englishman's  pistol.  "  Yes,  yes,  we 
must  go  to  bed  now,  Derry,"  she  cried 
quickly.  "  You  must  not  think  too  much. 
Tonight  it  must  just  be  of  me.  Tomorrow 
everything  will  come  out  right,  everything. 
And  now  you  may  send  me  to  bed.  Do 
you  remember 


!I32  THE  RIVER'S  END 

She  caught  herself,  biting  her  lip  to 
keep  back  the  word. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  urged.  "  Do  I  remember 
what?" 

"  How  you  used  to  come  in  at  the  very 
last  and  tuck  me  in  at  night,  Derry?  And 
how  we  used  to  whisper  to  ourselves  there 
in  the  darkness,  and  at  last  you  would  kiss 
me  good-night?  It  was  the  kiss  that 
always  made  me  go  to  sleep." 

He  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  remember,"  he 
said. 

He  led  her  to  the  spare  room,  and 
brought  in  her  two  travel-worn  bags,  and 
turned  on  the  light.  It  was  a  man's  room, 
but  Mary  Josephine  stood  for  a  moment 
surveying  it  with  delight. 

"  It's  home,  Derry,  real  home,"  she 
whispered. 

He  did  not  explain  to  her  that  it  was  a 
borrowed  home  and  that  this  was  his  first 
night  in  it.  Such  unimportant  details 
would  rest  until  tomorrow.  He  showed 
her  the  bath  and  its  water  system  and  then 
explained  to  Wallie  that  his  sister  was  in 
the  house  and  he  would  have  to  bunk  in 
the  kitchen.  At  the  last  he  knew  what  he 


THE  RIVER'S  END  133 

was  expected  to  do,  what  he  must  do. 
He  kissed  Mary  Josephine  good  night. 
He  kissed  her  twice.  And  Mary  Josephine 
kissed  him  and  gave  him  a  hug  the  like  of 
which  he  had  never  experienced  until  this 
night.  It  sent  him  back  to  the  fire  with 
blood  that  danced  like  a  drunken  man's. 

He  turned  the  lights  out  and  for  an  hour 
sat  in  the  dying  glow  of  the  birch.  For 
the  first  time  since  he  had  come  from 
Miriam  Kirkstone's  he  had  the  oppor 
tunity  to  think,  and  in  thinking  he  found 
his  brain  crowded  with  cold  and  unemo 
tional  fact.  He  saw  his  lie  in  all  its  naked 
immensity.  Yet  he  was  not  sorry  that  he 
had  lied.  He  had  saved  Conniston.  He 
had  saved  himself.  And  he  had  saved 
Conniston's  sister,  to  love,  to  fight  for,  to 
protect.  It  had  not  been  a  Judas  lie  but  a 
lie  with  his  heart  and  his  soul  and  all  the 
manhood  in  him  behind  it.  To  have  told 
the  truth  would  have  made  him  his  own 
executioner,  it  would  have  betrayed  the 
dead  Englishman  who  had  given  to  him 
his  name  and  all  that  he  possessed,  and  it 
would  have  dragged  to  a  pitiless  grief  the 
heart  of  a  girl  for  whom  the  sun  still  con- 


134          THE  RIVER'S  END 

tinued  to  shine.  No  regret  rose  before 
him  now.  He  felt  no  shame.  All  that  he 
saw  was  the  fight,  the  tremendous  fight, 
ahead  of  him,  his  fight  to  make  good  as 
Conniston,  his  fight  to  play  the  game  as 
Conniston  would  have  him  play  it.  The 
inspiration  that  had  come  to  him  as  he 
stood  facing  the  storm  from  the  western 
mountains  possessed  him  again.  He  would 
go  to  the  river's  end  as  he  had  planned  to 
go  before  McDowell  told  him  of  Shan 
Tung  and  Miriam  Kirkstone.  And  he 
would  not  go  alone.  Mary  Josephine 
would  go  with  him. 

It  was  midnight  when  he  rose  from  the 
big  chair  and  went  to  his  room.  The  door 
was  closed.  He  opened  it  and  entered. 
Even  as  his  hand  groped  for  the  switch 
on  the  wall,  his  nostrils  caught  the  scent 
of  something  which  was  familiar  and  yet 
which  should  not  have  been  there.  It 
filled  the  room,  just  as  it  had  filled  the  big 
hall  at  the  Kirkstone  house,  the  almost 
sickening  fragrance  of  agallochum  burned 
in  a  cigarette.  It  hung  like  a  heavy 
incense. 

Keith's   eyes   glared    as   he   scanned   the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  135 

room  under  the  lights,  half  expecting  to 
see  Shan  Tung  sitting  there  waiting  for 
him.  It  was  empty.  His  eyes  leaped  to 
the  two  windows.  The  shade  was  drawn 
at  one,  the  other  was  up,  and  the  window 
itself  was  open  an  inch  or  two  above  the 
sill.  Keith's  hand  gripped  his  pistol  as  he 
went  to  it  and  drew  the  curtain.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  table  on  which  were  the 
reading  lamp  and  Brady's  pipes  and  to 
bacco  and  magazines.  On  an  ash-tray  lay 
the  stub  of  a  freshly  burned  cigarette. 
Shan  Tung  had  come  secretly,  but  he  had 
made  no  effort  to  cover  his  presence. 

It  was  then  that  Keith  saw  something 
on  the  table  which  had  not  been  there 
before.  It  was  a  small,  rectangular,  teak- 
wood  box  no  larger  than  a  half  of  the 
palm  of  his  hand.  He  had  noticed  Miriam 
Kirkstone's  nervous  fingers  toying  with  just 
such  a  box  earlier  in  the  evening.  They 
were  identical  in  appearance.  Both  were 
covered  with  an  exquisite  fabric  of  oriental 
carving,  and  the  wood  was  stained  and 
polished  until  it  shone  with  the  dark  luster 
of  ebony.  Instantly  it  flashed  upon  him 
that  this  was  the  same  box  he  had  seen  at 


136          THE  RIVER'S  END 

Miriam's.  She  had  sent  it  to  him,  and 
Shan  Tung  had  been  her  messenger.  The 
absurd  thought  was  in  his  head  as  he  took 
up  a  small  white  square  of  card  that  lay 
on  top  of  the  box.  The  upper  side  of  this 
card  was  blank;  on  the  other  side,  in  a 
script  as  exquisite  in  its  delicacy  as  the 
carving  itself,  were  the  words : 

"  WITH  THE  COMPLIMENTS  OF  SHAN  TUNG." 

In  another  moment  Keith  had  opened 
the  box.  Inside  was  a  carefully  folded  slip 
of  paper,  and  on  this  paper  was  written 
a  single  line.  Keith's  heart  stopped  beat 
ing,  and  his  blood  ran  cold  as  he  read  what 
it  held  for  him,  a  message  of  doom  from 
Shan  Tung  in  nine  words: 

"  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  DERWENT  CONNIS- 
TON?  DID  YOU  KILL  HIM?  " 


XI 


STUNNED  by  a  shock  that  for  a  few 
moments  paralyzed  every  nerve  center 
in  his  body,  John  Keith  stood  with  the  slip 
of  white  paper  in  his  hands.  He  was  dis 
covered!  That  was  the  one  thought  that 
pounded  like  a  hammer  in  his  brain.  He 
was  discovered  in  the  very  hour  of  his 
triumph  and  exaltation,  in  that  hour  when 
the  world  had  opened  its  portals  of  joy 
and  hope  for  him  again  and  when  life  it 
self,  after  four  years  of  hell,  was  once 
more  worth  the  living.  Had  the  shock 
come  a  few  hours  before,  he  would  have 
taken  it  differently.  He  was  expecting  it 
then.  He  had  expected  it  when  he  en 
tered  McDowell's  office  the  first  time.  He 
was  prepared  for  it  afterward.  Discovery, 
failure,  and  death  were  possibilities  of  the 
hazardous  game  he  was  playing,  and  he 
\vas  unafraid,  because  he  had  only  his  life 
to  lose,  a  life  that  was  not  much  more 
137 


138  THE  RIVER'S  END 

than  a  hopeless  derelict  at  most.  Now  it 
was  different.  Mary  Josephine  had  come 
like  some  rare  and  wonderful  alchemy  to 
transmute  for  him  all  leaden  things  into 
gold.  In  a  few  minutes  she  had  upset  the 
world.  She  had  literally  torn  aside  for 
him  the  hopeless  chaos  in  which  he  saw 
himself  struggling,  flooding  him  with  the 
warm  radiance  of  a  great  love  and  a  still 
greater  desire.  On  his  lips  he  could  feel 
the  soft  thrill  of  her  good-night  kiss  and 
about  his  neck  the  embrace  of  her  soft 
arms.  She  had  not  gone  to  sleep  yet. 
Across  in  the  other  room  she  was  thinking 
of  him,  loving  him;  perhaps  she  was  on 
her  knees  praying  for  him,  even  as  he 
held  in  his  fingers  Shan  Tung's  mysterious 
forewarning  of  his  doom. 

The  first  impulse  that  crowded  in  upon 
him  was  that  of  flight,  the  selfish  impulse 
of  personal  salvation.  He  could  get  away. 
The  night  would  swallow  him  up.  A  mo 
ment  later  he  was  mentally  castigating 
himself  for  the  treachery  of  that  impulse 
to  Mary  Josephine.  His  floundering  senses 
began  to  readjust  themselves. 

Why   had   Shan   Tung   given   him   this 


THE  RIVER'S  END  139 

warning?  Why  had  he  not  gone  straight 
to  Inspector  McDowell  with  the  astound 
ing  disclosure  of  the  fact  that  the  man 
supposed  to  be  Derwent  Conniston  was  not 
Derwent  Conniston,  but  John  Keith,  the 
murderer  of  Miriam  Kirkstone's  father? 

The  questions  brought  to  Keith  a  new 
thrill.  He  read  the  note  again.  It  was  a 
definite  thing  stating  a  certainty  and  not  a 
guess.  Shan  Tung  had  not  shot  at  ran 
dom.  He  knew.  He  knew  that  he  was 
not  Derwent  Conniston  but  John  Keith. 
And  he  believed  that  he  had  killed  the 
Englishman  to  steal  his  identity.  In  the 
face  of  these  things  he  had  not  gone  to 
McDowell!  Keith's  eyes  fell  upon  the 
card  again.  "  With  the  compliments  of 
Shan  Tung."  What  did  the  words  mean? 
Why  had  Shan  Tung  written  them  unless 
—with  his  compliments — he  was  giving 
him  a  warning  and  the  chance  to  save 
himself? 

His  immediate  alarm  grew  less.  The 
longer  he  contemplated  the  slip  of  paper 
in  his  hand,  the  more  he  became  convinced 
that  the  inscrutable  Shan  Tung  was  the 
last  individual  in  the  world  to  stage  a  bit 


140          THE  RIVER'S  END 

of  melodrama  without  some  good  reason 
for  it.  There  was  but  one  conclusion  he 
could  arrive  at.  The  Chinaman  was  play 
ing  a  game  of  his  own,  and  he  had  taken 
this  unusual  way  of  advising  Keith  to 
make  a  getaway  while  the  going  was  good. 
It  was  evident  that  his  intention  had  been 
to  avoid  the  possibility  of  a  personal  dis 
cussion  of  the  situation.  That,  at  least,  was 
Keith's  first  impression. 

He  turned  to  examine  the  window. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Shan  Tung  had 
come  in  that  way.  Both  the  sill  and  cur 
tain  bore  stains  of  water  and  mud,  and 
there  was  wet  dirt  on  the  floor.  For  once 
the  immaculate  oriental  had  paid  no  at 
tention  to  his  feet.  At  the  door  leading 
into  the  big  room  Keith  saw  where  he  had 
stood  for  some  time,  listening,  probably 
when  McDowell  and  Mary  Josephine 
were  in  the  outer  room  waiting  for  him. 
Suddenly  his  eyes  riveted  themselves  on 
the  middle  panel  of  the  door.  Brady  had 
intended  his  color  scheme  to  be  old  ivory 
— the  panel  itself  was  nearly  white — and 
on  it  Shan  Tung  had  written  heavily  with 
a  lead  pencil  the  hour  of  his  presence, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  141 

"  10.45  P-M-"  Keith's  amazement  found 
voice  in  a  low  exclamation.  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  was  a  quarter-hour  after 
twelve.  He  had  returned  to  the  Shack 
before  ten,  and  the  clever  Shan  Tung  was 
letting  him  know  in  this  cryptic  fashion 
that  for  more  than  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  he  had  listened  at  the  door  and  spied 
upon  him  and  Mary  Josephine  through  the 
keyhole. 

Had  even  such  an  insignificant  person 
as  Wallie  been  guilty  of  that  act,  Keith 
would  have  felt  like  thrashing  him.  It 
surprised  himself  that  he  experienced  no 
personal  feeling  of  outrage  at  Shan  Tung's 
frank  confession  of  eavesdropping.  A 
subtle  significance  began  to  attach  itself 
more  and  more  to  the  story  his  room  was 
telling  him.  He  knew  that  Shan  Tung 
had  left  none  of  the  marks  of  his  presence 
out  of  bravado,  but  with  a  definite  pur 
pose.  Keith's  psychological  mind  was  at 
all  times  acutely  ready  to  seize  upon  pos 
sibilities,  and  just  as  his  positiveness  of 
Conniston's  spiritual  presence  had  inspired 
him  to  act  his  lie  with  Mary  Josephine, 
so  did  the  conviction  possess  him  now  that 


142          THE  RIVER'S  END 

his  room  held  for  him  a  message  of  the 
most  vital  importance. 

In  such  an  emergency  Keith  employed 
his  own  method.  He  sat  down,  lighted  his 
pipe  again,  and  centered  the  full  resource 
of  his  mind  on  Shan  Tung,  dissociating 
himself  from  the  room  and  the  adventure 
of  the  night  as  much  as  possible  in  his  ob 
jective  analysis  of  the  man.  Four  distinct 
emotional  factors  entered  into  that  analysis 
— fear,  distrust,  hatred,  personal  enmity. 
To  his  surprise  he  found  himself  drifting 
steadily  into  an  unusual  and  unexpected 
mental  attitude.  From  the  time  he  had 
faced  Shan  Tung  in  the  inspector's  office, 
he  had  regarded  him  as  the  chief  enemy 
of  his  freedom,  his  one  great  menace. 
Now  he  felt  neither  personal  enmity  nor 
hatred  for  him.  Fear  and  distrust  re 
mained,  but  the  fear  was  impersonal  and 
the  distrust  that  of  one  who  watches  a 
clever  opponent  in  a  game  or  a  fight.  His 
conception  of  Shan  Tung  changed.  He 
found  his  occidental  mind  running  paral 
lel  with  the  oriental,  bridging  the  spaces 
which  otherwise  it  never  would  have 
crossed,  and  at  the  end  it  seized  upon  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  143 

key.  It  proved  to  him  that  his  first  im 
pulse  had  been  wrong.  Shan  Tung  had 
not  expected  him  to  seek  safety  in  flight. 
He  had  given  the  white  man  credit  for  a 
larger  understanding  than  that.  His  de 
sire,  first  of  all,  had  been  to  let  Keith 
know  that  he  was  not  the  only  one  who 
was  playing  for  big  stakes,  and  that  an 
other,  Shan  Tung  himself,  was  gambling 
a  hazard  of  his  own,  and  that  the  fraudu 
lent  Derwent  Conniston  was  a  trump  card 
in  that  game. 

To  impress  this  upon  Keith  he  had,  first 
of  all,  acquainted  him  with  the  fact  that 
he  had  seen  through  his  deception  and  that 
he  knew  he  was  John  Keith  and  not  Der 
went  Conniston.  He  had  also  let  him 
know  that  he  believed  he  had  killed  the 
Englishman,  a  logical  supposition  under 
the  circumstances.  This  information  he 
had  left  for  Keith  was  not  in  the  form  of 
an  intimidation.  There  was,  indeed,  some 
thing  very  near  apologetic  courtesy  in  the 
presence  of  the  card  bearing  Shan  Tung's 
compliments.  The  penciling  of  the  hour 
on  the  panel  of  the  door,  without  other 
notation,  was  a  polite  and  suggestive  hint. 


144          THE  RIVER'S  END 

He  wanted  Keith  to  know  that  he  under 
stood  his  peculiar  situation  up  uniil  that 
particular  time,  that  he  had  heard  and  pos 
sibly  seen  much  that  had  passed  between 
him  and  Mary  Josephine.  The  partly 
opened  window,  the  mud  and  wet  on  cur 
tains  and  floor,  and  the  cigarette  stubs 
were  all  to  call  Keith's  attention  to  the 
box  on  the  table. 

Keith  could  not  but  feel  a  certain  sort  of 
admiration  for  the  Chinaman.  The  two 
questions  he  must  answer  now  were,  What 
was  Shan  Tung's  game?  and  What  did 
Shan  Tung  expect  him  to  do? 

Instantly  Miriam  Kirkstone  flashed 
upon  him  as  the  possible  motive  for  Shan 
Tung's  visit.  He  recalled  her  unexpected 
and  embarrassing  question  of  that  evening, 
in  which  she  had  expressed  a  suspicion 
and  a  doubt  as  to  John  Keith's  death. 
He  had  gone  to  Miriam's  at  eight.  It  must 
have  been  very  soon  after  that,  and  after 
she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  face  at 
the  window,  that  Shan  Tung  had  hurried 
to  the  Shack. 

Slowly  but  surely  the  tangled  threads  of 
the  night's  adventure  were  unraveling 


THE  RIVER'S  END  145 

themselves  for  Keith.  The  main  facts 
pressed  upon  him,  no  longer  smothered  in 
a  chaos  of  theory  and  supposition.  If 
there  had  been  no  Miriam  Kirkstone  in 
the  big  house  on  the  hill,  Shan  Tung 
would  have  gone  to  McDowell,  and  he 
would  have  been  in  irons  at  the  present 
moment.  McDowell  had  been  right  after 
all.  Miriam  Kirkstone  was  fighting  for 
something  that  was  more  than  her  exist 
ence.  The  thought  of  that  "  something " 
made  Keith  writhe  and  his  hands  clench. 
Shan  Tung  had  triumphed  but  not  utterly. 
A  part  of  the  fruit  of  his  triumph  was 
still  just  out  of  his  reach,  and  the  two 
— beautiful  Miss  Kirkstone  and  the  deadly 
Shan  Tung — were  locked  in  a  final 
struggle  for  its  possession.  In  some  mys 
terious  way  he,  John  Keith,  was  to  play 
the  winning  hand.  How  or  when  he  could 
not  understand.  But  of  one  thing  he  was 
convinced;  in  exchange  for  whatever  win 
ning  card  he  held  Shan  Tung  had  offered 
him  his  life.  Tomorrow  he  would  expect 
an  answer. 

That  tomorow  had  already  dawned.     It 
was  one  o'clock  when  Keith  again  looked 


146  THE  RIVER'S  END 

at  his  watch.  Twenty  hours  ago  he  had 
cooked  his  last  camp-fire  breakfast.  It 
was  only  eighteen  hours  ago  that  he  had 
filled  himself  with  the  smell  of  Andy 
Duggan's  bacon,  and  still  more  recently 
that  he  had  sat  in  the  little  barber  shop  on 
the  corner  wondering  what  his  fate  would 
be  when  he  faced  McDowell.  It  struck 
him  as  incongruous  and  impossible  that 
only  fifteen  hours  had  passed  since  then. 
If  he  possessed  a  doubt  of  the  reality  of 
it  all,  the  bed  was  there  to  help  convince 
him.  It  was  a  real  bed,  and  he  had  not 
slept  in  a  real  bed  for  a  number  of  years. 
Wallie  had  made  it  ready  for  him.  Its 
sheets  were  snow-white.  There  was  a 
counterpane  with  a  fringe  on  it  and  pillows 
puffed  up  with  billowy  invitation,  as  if 
they  were  on  the  point  of  floating  away. 
Had  they  risen  before  his  eyes,  Keith 
would  have  regarded  the  phenomenon 
rather  casually.  After  the  swift  piling 
up  of  the  amazing  events  of  those  fifteen 
hours,  a  floating  pillow  would  have  seemed 
quite  in  the  natural  orbit  of  things.  But 
they  did  not  float.  They  remained  where 
they  were,  their  white  breasts  bared  to  him, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  147 

urging  upon  him  a  common-sense  perspec 
tive  of  the  situation.  He  wasn't  going  to 
run  away.  He  couldn't  sit  up  all  night. 
Therefore  why  not  come  to  them  and 
sleep  ? 

There  was  something  directly  personal 
in  the  appeal  of  the  pillows  and  the  bed. 
It  was  not  general;  it  was  for  him.  And 
Keith  responded. 

He  made  another  note  of  the  time,  a 
half-hour  after  one,  when  he  turned  in. 
He  allotted  himself  four  hours  of  sleep,  for 
it  was  his  intention  to  be  up  with  the  sun. 


XII 

T^TECESSITY  had  made  of  Keith  a 
•*•  ^i  fairly  accurate  human  chronometer. 
In  the  second  year  of  his  fugitivism  he  had 
lost  his  watch.  At  first  it  was  like  losing 
an  arm,  a  part  of  his  brain,  a  living  friend. 
From  that  time  until  he  came  into  pos 
session  of  Conniston's  timepiece  he  was  his 
own  hour-glass  and  his  own  alarm  clock. 
He  became  proficient. 

Brady's  bed  and  the  Circe-breasted  pil 
lows  that  supported  his  head  were  his  un 
doing.  The  morning  after  Shan  Tung's 
visit  he  awoke  to  find  the  sun  flooding  in 
through  the  eastern  window  of  his  room. 
The  warmth  of  it  as  it  fell  full  in  his 
face,  setting  his  eyes  blinking,  told  him 
it  was  too  late.  He  guessed  it  was  eight 
o'clock.  When  he  fumbled  his  watch  out 
from  under  his  pillow  and  looked  at  it, 
he  found  it  was  a  quarter  past.  He  got 
up  quietly,  his  mind  swiftly  aligning  itself 

to     the     happenings     of     yesterday.      He 
148 


THE  RIVER'S  END  149 

stretched  himself  until  his  muscles- 
snapped,  and  his  chest  expanded  with 
deep  breaths  of  air  from  the  windows  he 
had  left  open  when  he  went  to  bed.  He 
was  fit.  He  was  ready  for  Shan  Tung,  for 
McDowell.  And  over  this  physical  readi 
ness  there  surged  the  thrill  of  a  glorious 
anticipation.  It  fairly  staggered  him  to 
discover  how  badly  he  wanted  to  see  Mary 
Josephine  again. 

He  wondered  if  she  was  still  asleep  and 
answered  that  there  was  little  possibility 
of  her  being  awake — even  at  eight  o'clock. 
Probably  she  would  sleep  until  noon,  the 
poor,  tired,  little  thing!  He  smiled  affec 
tionately  into  the  mirror  over  Brady's 
dressing-table.  And  then  the  unmistakable 
sound  of  voices  in  the  outer  room  took  him 
curiously  to  the  door.  They  were  subdued 
voices.  He  listened  hard,  and  his  heart 
pumped  faster.  One  of  them  was  Wallie's 
voice;  the  other  was  Mary  Josephine's. 

He  was  amused  with  himself  at  the  ex 
treme  care  with  which  he  proceeded  to 
dress.  It  was  an  entirely  new  sensation. 
Wallie  had  provided  him  with  the  neces 
saries  for  a  cold  sponge  and  in  some  mys- 


150          THE  RIVER'S  END 

terious  interim  since  their  arrival  had 
brushed  and  pressed  the  most  important  of 
Conniston's  things.  With  the  English 
man's  wardrobe  he  had  brought  up  from 
barracks  a  small  chest  which  was  still 
locked.  Until  this  morning  Keith  had 
not  noticed  it  It  was  less  than  half  as 
large  as  a  steamer  trunk  and  had  the  ap 
pearance  of  being  intended  as  a  strong 
box  rather  than  a  traveling  receptacle.  It 
was  ribbed  by  four  heavy  bands  of  copper, 
and  the  corners  and  edges  were  reinforced 
with  the  same  metal.  The  lock  itself 
seemed  to  be  impregnable  to  one  without 
a  key.  Conniston's  name  was  heavily  en 
graved  on  a  copper  tablet  just  above  the 
lock. 

.  Keith  regarded  the  chest  with  swiftly 
growing  speculation.  It  was  not  a  thing  one 
would  ordinarily  possess.  It  was  an  object 
which,  on  the  face  of  it,  was  intended  to 
be  inviolate  except  to  its  master  key,  a 
holder  of  treasure,  a  guardian  of  mystery 
and  of  precious  secrets.  In  the  little  cabin 
up  on  the  Barren  Conniston  had  said 
rather  indifferently,  "  You  may  find  some 
thing  among  my  things  down  there  that 


THE  RIVER'S  END  151 

will  help  you  out."  The  words  flashed 
back  to  Keith.  Had  the  Englishman,  in 
that  casual  and  uncommunicative  way  of 
his,  referred  to  the  contents  of  this  chest? 
Was  it  not  possible  that  it  held  for  him 
a  solution  to  the  mystery  that  was  facing 
him  in  the  presence  of  Mary  Josephine? 
A  sense  of  conviction  began  to  possess  him. 
He  examined  the  lock  more  closely  and 
found  that  with  proper  tools  it  could  be 
broken. 

He  finished  dressing  and  completed  his 
toilet  by  brushing  his  beard.  On  account 
of  Mary  Josephine  he  found  himself  re 
garding  this  hirsute  tragedy  with  a  grow 
ing  feeling  of  disgust,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  it  gave  him  an  appearance  rather  dis 
tinguished  and  military.  He  wanted  it 
off.  Its  chief  crime  was  that  it  made  him 
look  older.  Besides,  it  was  inclined  to  be 
reddish.  And  it  must  tickle  and  prick  like 
the  deuce  when — 

He  brought  himself  suddenly  to  salute 
with  an  appreciative  grin.  "  You're  there, 
and  you've  got  to  stick,"  he  chuckled. 
After  all,  he  was  a  likable-looking  chap, 
even  with  that  handicap.  He  was  glad. 


152          THE  RIVER'S  END 

He  opened  his  door  so  quietly  that 
Mary  Josephine  did  not  see  him  at  first. 
Her  back  was  toward  him  as  she  bent  over 
the  dining-table.  Her  slim  little  figure 
was  dressed  in  some  soft  stuff  all  crinkly 
from  packing.  Her  hair,  brown  and  soft, 
was  piled  up  in  shining  coils  on  the  top 
of  her  head.  For  the  life  of  him  Keith 
couldn't  keep  his  eyes  from  traveling  from 
the  top  of  that  glowing  head  to  the  little 
high-heeled  feet  on  the  floor.  They  were 
adorable,  slim  little,  aristocratic  feet  with 
dainty  ankles!  He  stood  looking  at  her 
until  she  turned  and  caught  him. 

There  was  a  change  since  last  night. 
She  was  older.  He  could  see  it  now,  the 
utter  impropriety  of  his  cuddling  her  up 
like  a  baby  in  the  big  chair — the  impossi 
bility,  almost. 

Mary  Josephine  settled  his  doubt.  With 
a  happy  little  cry  she  ran  to  him,  and  Keith 
found  her  arms  about  him  again  and  her 
lovely  mouth  held  up  to  be  kissed.  He 
hesitated  for  perhaps  the  tenth  part  of 
a  second,  if  hesitation  could  be  counted  in 
that  space.  Then  his  arms  closed  about 
her,  and  he  kissed  her.  He  felt  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  153 

snuggle  of  her  face  against  his  breast 
again,  the  crush  and  sweetness  of  her  hair 
against  his  lips  and  cheek.  He  kissed  her 
again  uninvited.  Before  he  could  stop  the 
habit,  he  had  kissed  her  a  third  time. 

Then  her  hands  were  at  his  face,  and  he 
saw  again  that  look  in  her  eyes,  a  deep 
and  anxious  questioning  behind  the  shim 
mer  of  love  in  them,  something  mute  and 
understanding  and  wonderfully  sympa 
thetic,  a  mothering  soul  looking  at  him 
and  praying  as  it  looked.  If  his  life  had 
paid  the  forfeit  the  next  instant,  he  could 
not  have  helped  kissing  her  a  fourth  time. 

If  Mary  Josephine  had  gone  to  bed  with 
a  doubt  of  his  brotherly  interest  last  night, 
the  doubt  was  removed  now.  Her  cheeks 
flushed.  Her  eyes  shone.  She  was  palpi- 
tantly,  excitedly  happy.  "  It's  youf 
Derry,"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  it's  you  as  you 
used  to  be !  " 

She  seized  his  hand  and  drew  him 
toward  the  table.  Wallie  thrust  in  his 
head  from  the  kitchenette,  grinning,  and 
Mary  Josephine  flashed  him  back  a  mean 
ing  smile.  Keith  saw  in  an  instant  that 
Wallie  had  turned  from  his  heathen  gods 


154          THE  RIVER'S  END 

to  the  worship  of  something  infinitely  more 
beautiful.  He  no  longer  looked  to  Keith 
for  instructions. 

Mary  Josephine  sat  down  opposite  Keith 
at  the  table.  She  was  telling  him,  with 
that  warm  laughter  and  happiness  in  her 
eyes,  how  the  sun  had  wakened  her,  and 
how  she  had  helped  Wallie  get  breakfast. 
For  the  first  time  Keith  was  looking  at  her 
from  a  point  of  vantage;  there  was  just 
so  much  distance  between  them,  no  more 
and  no  less,  and  the  light  was  right.  She 
was,  to  him,  exquisite.  The  little  puckery 
lines  came  into  her  smooth  forehead  when 
he  apologized  for  his  tardiness  by  explain 
ing  that  he  had  not  gone  to  bed  until  one 
o'clock.  Her  concern  was  delightful.  She 
scolded  him  while  Wallie  brought  in  the 
breakfast,  and  inwardly  he  swelled  with 
the  irrepressible  exultation  of  a  great  pos 
sessor.  He  had  never  had  anyone  to  scold 
him  like  that  before.  It  was  a  scolding 
which  expressed  Mary  Josephine's  im 
mediate  proprietorship  of  him,  and  he 
wondered  if  the  pleasure  of  it  made  him 
look  as  silly  as  Wallie.  His  plans  were 
all  gone.  He  had  intended  to  play  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  155 

idiotic  part  of  one  who  had  partly  lost 
his  memory,  but  throughout  the  breakfast 
he  exhibited  no  sign  that  he  was  anything 
but  healthfully  normal.  Mary  Josephine's 
delight  at  the  improvement  of  his  condi 
tion  since  last  night  shone  in  her  face  and 
eyes,  and  he  could  see  that  she  was  strictly, 
but  with  apparent  unconsciousness,  guard 
ing  herself  against  saying  anything  that 
might  bring  up  the  dread  shadow  between 
them.  She  had  already  begun  to  fight  her 
own  fight  for  him,  and  the  thing  was  so 
beautiful  that  he  wanted  to  go  round  to 
her,  and  get  down  on  his  knees,  and  put 
his  head  in  her  lap,  and  tell  her  the  truth. 
It  was  in  the  moment  of  that  thought 
that  the  look  came  into  his  face  which 
brought  the  questioning  little  lines  into  her 
forehead  again.  In  that  instant  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  hunted  man,  of  the  soul 
that  had  traded  itself,  of  desire  beaten  into 
helplessness  by  a  thing  she  would  never 
understand.  It  was  gone  swiftly,  but  she 
had  caught  it.  And  for  her  the  scar  just 
under  his  hair  stood  for  its  meaning.  The 
responsive  throb  in  her  breast  was  electric. 
He  felt  it,  saw  it,  sensed  it  to  the  depth  of 


!iS6          THE  RIVER'S  END 

his  soul,  and  his  faith  in  himself  stood 
challenged.  She  believed.  And  he — was 
a  liar.  tYet  what  a  wonderful  thing  to  lie 
for! 

" — He  called  me  up  over  the  telephone, 
and  when  I  told  him  to  be  quiet,  that  you 
were  still  asleep,  I  think  he  must  have 
sworn — it  sounded  like  it,  but  I  couldn't 
hear  distinctly — and  then  he  fairly  roared 
at  me  to  wake  you  up  and  tell  you  that  you 
didn't  half  deserve  such  a  lovely  little 
sister  as  I  am.  Wasn't  that  nice,  Derry?  " 

"  You — you're  talking  about  Mc 
Dowell?" 

"To  be  sure  I  am  talking  about  Mr. 
McDowell!  And  when  I  told  him  your 
injury  troubled  you  more  than  usual,  and 
that  I  was  glad  you  were  resting,  I  think 
I  heard  him  swallow  hard.  He  thinks  a 
lot  of  you,  Derry.  And  then  he  asked  me 
'which  injury  it  was  that  hurt  you,  and  I 
told  him  the  one  in  the  head.  What  did 
he  mean?  Were  you  hurt  somewhere  else, 
Derry?  " 

Keith  swallowed  hard,  too.  "  Not  to, 
speak  of,"  he  said.  "  You  see,  Mary  Jose 
phine,  I've  got  a  tremendous  surprise  for 


THE  RIVER'S  END  157 

you,  if  you'll  promise  it  won't  spoil  your 
appetite.  Last  night  was  the  first  night 
I've  spent  in  a  real  bed  for  three  years." 

And  then,  without  waiting  for  her  ques 
tions,  he  began  to  tell  her  the  epic  story  of 
John  Keith.  With  her  sitting  opposite 
him,  her  beautiful,  wide-open,  gray  eyes 
looking  at  him  with  amazement  as  she 
sensed  the  marvelous  coincidence  of  their 
meeting,  he  told  it  as  he  had  not  told  it  to 
McDowell  or  even  to  Miriam  Kirkstone. 
A  third  time  the  facts  were  the  same.  But 
it  was  John  Keith  now  who  was  telling 
John  Keith's  story  through  the  lips  of  an 
unreal  and  negative  Conniston.  He  for 
got  his  own  breakfast,  and  a  look  of  gloom 
settled  on  Wallie's  face  when  he  peered  in 
through  the  door  and  saw  that  their  coffee 
and  toast  were  growing  cold.  Mary  Jose 
phine  leaned  a  little  over  the  table.  Not 
once  did  she  interrupt  Keith.  Never  had 
he  dreamed  of  a  glory  that  might  reflect 
his  emotions  as  did  her  eyes.  As  he 
swept  from  pathos  to  storm,  from  the  mad 
ness  of  long,  black  nights  to  starvation  and 
cold,  as  he  told  of  flight,  of  pursuit,  of 
the  merciless  struggle  that  ended  at  last 


158  THE  RIVER'S  END 

in  the  capture  of  John  Keith,  as  he  gave 
to  these  things  words  and  life  pulsing  with 
the  beat  of  his  own  heart,  he  saw  them 
revisioned  in  those  wonderful  gray  eyes, 
cold  at  times  with  fear,  warm  and  glow 
ing  at  other  times  with  sympathy,  and 
again  shining  softly  with  a  glory  of  pride 
and  love  that  was  meant  for  him  alone. 
With  him  she  was  present  in  the  little 
cabin  up  in  the  big  Barren.  Until  he  told 
of  those  days  and  nights  of  hopeless  deso 
lation,  of  racking  cough  and  the  nearness 
of  death,  and  of  the  comradeship  of 
brothers  that  had  come  as  a  final  benedic 
tion  to  the  hunter  and  the  hunted,  until  in 
her  soul  she  was  understanding  and  living 
those  terrible  hours  as  they  two  had  lived 
them,  he  did  not  know  how  deep  and  dark 
and  immeasurably  tender  that  gray  mys 
tery  of  beauty  in  her  eyes  could  be.  From 
that  hour  he  worshiped  them  as  he  wor 
shiped  no  other  part  of  her. 

"  And  from  all  that  you  came  back  the 
same  day  I  came,"  she  said  in  a  low,  awed 
voice.  "  You  came  back  from  that!  " 

He  remembered  the  part  he  must  play. 
"  Yes,  three  years  of  it.  If  I  could  only 


THE  RIVER'S  END  159 

remember  as  well,  only  half  as  well,  things 
that  happened  before  this—  He  raised 

a  hand  to  his  forehead,  to  the  scar. 

"  You  will,"  she  whispered  swiftly. 
"  Derry,  darling,  you  willl  " 

Wallie  sidled  in  and,  with  an  adoring 
grin  at  Mary  Josephine,  suggested  that  he 
had  more  coffee  and  toast  ready  to  serve, 
piping  hot.  Keith  was  relieved.  The  day 
had  begun  auspiciously,  and  over  the  bacon 
and  eggs,  done  to  a  ravishing  brown  by 
the  little  Jap,  he  told  Mary  Josephine  of 
some  of  his  bills  of  fare  in  the  north  and 
how  yesterday  he  had  filled  up  on  bacon 
smell  at  Andy  Duggan's.  Steak  from  the 
cheek  of  a  walrus,  he  told  her,  was  equal 
to  porterhouse;  seal  meat  wasn't  bad,  but 
one  grew  tired  of  it  quickly  unless  he  was 
an  Eskimo;  polar  bear  meat  was  filling  but 
tough  and  strong.  He  liked  whale  meat, 
especially  the  tail-steaks  of  narwhal,  and 
cold  boiled  blubber  was  good  in  the  winter, 
only  it  was  impossible  to  cook  it  because 
of  lack  of  fuel,  unless  one  was  aboard  ship 
or  had  an  alcohol  stove  in  his  outfit.  The 
tidbit  of  the  Eskimo  was  birds'-eggs,  gath 
ered  by  the  ton  in  summer-time,  rotten  be- 


160          THE  RIVER'S  END 

fore  cold  weather  came,  and  frozen  solid 
as  chunks  of  ice  in  winter.  Through  one 
starvation  period  of  three  weeks  he  had 
lived  on  them  himself,  crunching  them  raw 
in  his  mouth  as  one  worries  away  with  a 
piece  of  rock  candy.  The  little  lines  gath 
ered  in  Mary  Josephine's  forehead  at  this, 
but  they  smoothed  away  into  laughter 
when  he  humorously  described  the  joy  of 
living  on  nothing  at  all  but  air.  And  he 
added  to  this  by  telling  her  how  the  glut 
tonous  Eskimo  at  feast-time  would  lie  out 
flat  on  their  backs  so  that  their  women 
folk  could  feed  them  by  dropping  chunks 
of  flesh  into  their  open  maws  until  their 
stomachs  swelled  up  like  the  crops  of  birds 
overstuffed  with  grain. 

It  was  a  successful  breakfast.  When  it 
was  over,  Keith  felt  that  he  had  achieved 
a  great  deal.  Before  they  rose  from  the 
table,  he  startled  Mary  Josephine  by  order 
ing  Wallie  to  bring  him  a  cold  chisel  and 
a  hammer  from  Brady's  tool-chest. 

"  I've  lost  the  key  that  opens  my  chest, 
and  I've  got  to  break  in,"  he  explained  to 
her. 

Mary  Josephine's  little  laugh  was  deli- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  161 

cious.  "  After  what  you  told  me  about 
frozen  eggs,  I  thought  perhaps  you  were 
going  to  eat  some,"  she  said. 

She  linked  her  arm  in  his  as  they  walked 
into  the  big  room,  snuggling  her  head 
against  his  shoulder  so  that,  leaning  over, 
his  lips  were  buried  in  one  of  the  soft, 
shining  coils  of  her  hair.  And  she  was 
making  plans,  enumerating  them  on  the 
tips  of  her  fingers.  If  he  had  business  out 
side,  she  was  going  with  him.  Wherever 
he  went  she  was  going.  There  was  no 
doubt  in  her  mind  about  that.  She  called 
his  attention  to  a  trunk  that  had  arrived 
while  he  slept,  and  assured  him  she  would 
be  ready  for  outdoors  by  the  time  he  had 
opened  his  chest.  She  had  a  little  blue 
suit  she  was  going  to  wear.  And  her  hair? 
Did  it  look  good  enough  for  his  friends  to 
see?  She  had  put  it  up  in  a  hurry. 

"  It  is  beautful,  glorious,"  he  said. 

Her  face  pinked  under  the  ardency  of 
his  gaze.  She  put  a  ringer  to  the  tip  of 
his  nose,  laughing  at  him.  "  Why,  Derry, 
if  you  weren't  my  brother  I'd  think  you 
were  my  lover!  You  said  that  as  though 
you  meant  it  terribly  much.  Do  you?  " 


i6z          THE  RIVER'S  END 

He  felt  a  sudden  dull  stab  of  pain. 
"Yes,  I  mean  it.  It's  glorious.  And  so 
are  you,  Mary  Josephine,  every  bit  of 
you." 

On  tiptoe  she  gave  him  the  warm  sweet 
ness  of  her  lips  again.  And  then  she  ran 
away  from  him,  joy  and  laughter  in  her 
face,  and  disappeared  into  her  room. 
"  You  must  hurry  or  I  shall  beat  you," 
she  called  back  to  him. 


XIII 

IN  his  own  room,  with  the  door  closed 
and  locked,  Keith  felt  again  that  dull, 
strange  pain  that  made  his  heart  sick  and 
the  air  about  him  difficult  to  breathe. 

"If  you  weren't  my  brother" 

The  words  beat  in  his  brain.  They  were 
pounding  at  his  heart  until  it  was  smoth 
ered,  laughing  at  him  and  taunting  him 
and  triumphing  over  him  just  as,  many 
times  before,  the  raving  voices  of  the 
weird  wind-devils  had  scourged  him  from 
out  of  black  night  and  arctic  storm.  Her 
brother!  His  hand  clenched  until  the  nails 
bit  into  his  flesh.  No,  he  hadn't  thought 
of  that  part  of  the  fight!  And  now  it 
swept  upon  him  in  a  deluge.  If  he  lost  in 
the  fight  that  was  ahead  of  him,  his  life 
would  pay  the  forfeit.  The  law  would 
take  him,  and  he  would  hang.  And  if  he 
won — she  would  be  his  sister  forever  and 
to  the  end  of  all  time!  Just  that,  and  no 
163 


164          THE  RIVER'S  END 

more.  His  sister!  And  the  agony  of 
truth  gripped  him  that  it  was  not  as  a 
brother  that  he  saw  the  glory  in  her  hair, 
the  glory  in  her  eyes  and  face,  and  the 
glory  in  her  slim  little,  beautiful  body — 
but  as  the  lover.  A  merciless  preordina 
tion  had  stacked  the  cards  against  him 
again.  He  was  Conniston,  and  she  was 
Conniston's  sister. 

A  strong  man,  a  man  in  whom  blood  ran 
red,  there  leaped  up  in  him  for  a  moment  a 
sudden  and  unreasoning  rage  at  that  thing 
which  he  had  called  fate.  He  saw  the  un 
fairness  of  it  all,  the  hopelessness  of  it, 
the  cowardly  subterfuge  and  trickery  of 
life  itself  as  it  had  played  against  him,  and 
with  tightly  set  lips  and  clenched  hands  he 
called  mutely  on  God  Almighty  to  play  the 
game  square.  Give  him  a  chance!  Give 
him  just  one  square  deal,  only  one;  let  him 
see  a  way,  let  him  fight  a  man's  fight  with 
a  ray  of  hope  ahead  1  In  these  red  mo 
ments  hope  emblazoned  itself  before  his 
eyes  as  a  monstrous  lie.  Bitterness  rose  in 
him  until  he  was  drunk  with  it,  and 
blasphemy  filled  his  heart.  Whichever 
way  he  turned,  however  hard  he  fought, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  165 

there  was  no  chance  of  winning.  From 
the  day  he  killed  Kirkstone  the  cards  had 
been  stacked  against  him,  and  they  were 
stacked  now  and  would  be  stacked  until 
the  end.  He  had  believed  in  God,  he  had 
believed  in  the  inevitable  ethics  of  the 
final  reckoning  of  things,  and  he  had 
believed  strongly  that  an  impersonal  Some 
thing  more  powerful  than  man-made  will 
was  behind  him  in  his  struggles.  These 
beliefs  were  smashed  now.  Toward  them 
he  felt  the  impulse  of  a  maddened  beast 
trampling  hated  things  under  foot.  They 
stood  for  lies — treachery — cheating — yes, 
contemptible  cheating!  It  was  impossible 
for  him  to  win.  However  he  played, 
whichever  way  he  turned,  he  must  lose. 
For  he  was  Conniston,  and  she  was  Con- 
niston's  sister,  and  must  be  to  the  end  of 
time. 

Faintly,  beyond  the  door,  he  heard  Mary 
Josephine  singing.  Like  a  bit  of  steel 
drawn  to  a  tension  his  normal  self  snapped 
back  into  place.  His  readjustment  came 
with  a  lurch,  a  subtle  sort  of  shock.  His 
hands  unclenched,  the  tense  lines  in  his 
face  relaxed,  and  because  that  God  Al- 


166          THE  RIVER'S  END 

mighty  he  had  challenged  had  given  to 
him  an  unquenchable  humor,  he  saw  an 
other  thing  where  only  smirking  ghouls 
and  hypocrites  had  rent  his  brain  with 
their  fiendish  exultations  a  moment  before. 
It  was  Conniston's  face,  suave,  smiling, 
dying,  triumphant  over  life,  and  Connis- 
ton  was  saying,  just  as  he  had  said  up  there 
in  the  cabin  on  the  Barren,  with  death 
reaching  out  a  hand  for  him,  "  It's  queer, 
old  top,  devilish  queer — and  funny!  " 

Yes,  it  was  funny  if  one  looked  at  it 
right,  and  Keith  found  himself  swinging 
back  into  his  old  view-point.  It  was  the 
hugest  joke  life  had  ever  played  on  him. 
His  sister!  He  could  fancy  Conniston 
twisting  his  mustaches,  his  cool  eyes  glim 
mering  with  silent  laughter,  looking  on  his 
predicament,  and  he  could  fancy  Connis 
ton  saying:  "It's  funny,  old  top,  devilish 
funny — but  it'll  be  funnier  still  when  some 
other  man  comes  along  and  carries  her 
off!" 

And  he,  John  Keith,  would  have  to 
grin  and  bear  it  because  he  was  her 
brother! 

Mary  Josephine  was  tapping  at  his  door. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  167 

"  Derwent  Conniston,"  she  called  frigidly, 
"  there's  a  female  person  on  the  telephone 
asking  for  you.  What  shall  I  say?  " 

"  Er — why — tell  her  you're  my  sister, 
Mary  Josephine,  and  if  it's  Miss  Kirkstone, 
be  nice  to  her  and  say  I'm  not  able  to 
come  to  the  'phone,  and  that  you're  looking 
forward  to  meeting  her,  and  that  we'll  be 
up  to  see  her  some  time  today." 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"  You  see,"  said  Keith,  his  mouth  close 
to  the  door,  "  you  see,  this  Miss  Kirk- 
stone— 

But  Mary  Josephine  was  gone. 

Keith  grinned.  His  illimitable  optimism 
was  returning.  Sufficient  for  the  day  that 
she  was  there,  that  she  loved  him,  that  she 
belonged  to  him,  that  just  now  he  was  the 
arbiter  of  her  destiny!  Far  off  in  the 
mountains  he  dreamed  of,  alone,  just  they 
two,  what  might  not  happen?  Some 
day 

With  the  cold  chisel  and  the  hammer  he 
went  to  the  chest  His  task  was  one  that 
numbed  his  hands  before  the  last  of  the 
three  locks  was  broken.  He  dragged  the 
chest  more  into  the  light  and  opened  it. 


1 68  THE  RIVER'S  END 

He  was  disappointed.  At  first  glance  he 
could  not  understand  why  Conniston  had 
locked  it  at  all.  It  was  almost  empty,  so 
nearly  empty  that  he  could  see  the  bottom 
of  it,  and  the  first  object  that  met  his  eyes 
was  an  insult  to  his  expectations — an  old 
sock  with  a  huge  hole  in  the  toe  of  it. 
Under  the  sock  was  an  old  fur  cap  not  of 
the  kind  worn  north  of  Montreal.  There 
was  a  chain  with  a  dog-collar  attached  to 
it,  a  hip-pocket  pistol  and  a  huge  forty- 
five,  and  not  less  than  a  hundred  cartridges 
of  indiscriminate  calibers  scattered  loosely 
about.  At  one  end,  bundled  in  carelessly, 
was  a  pair  of  riding-breeches,  and  under 
the  breeches  a  pair  of  white  shoes  with 
rubber  soles.  There  was  neither  sentiment 
nor  reason  to  the  collection  in  the  chest. 
It  was  junk.  Even  the  big  forty-five  had  a 
broken  hammer,  and  the  pistol,  Keith 
thought,  might  have  stunned  a  fly  at  close 
range.  He  pawed  the  things  over  with 
the  cold  chisel,  and  the  last  thing  he  came 
upon — buried  under  what  looked  like  a 
cast-off  sport  shirt — was  a  pasteboard  shoe 
box.  He  raised  the  cover.  The  box  was 
full  of  papers. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  169 

Here  was  promise.  He  transported  the 
box  to  Brady's  table  and  sat  down.  He 
examined  the  larger  papers  first.  There 
were  a  couple  of  old  game  licenses  for 
Manitoba,  half  a  dozen  pencil-marked 
maps,  chiefly  of  the  Peace  River  country, 
and  a  number  of  letters  from  the  secre 
taries  of  Boards  of  Trade  pointing  out  the 
incomparable  possibilities  their  respective 
districts  held  for  the  homesteader  and  the 
buyer  of  land.  Last  of  all  came  a  number 
of  newspaper  clippings  and  a  packet  of 
letters. 

Because  they  were  loose  he  seized  upon 
the  clippings  first,  and  as  his  eyes  fell  upon 
the  first  paragraph  of  the  first  clipping  his 
body  became  suddenly  tensed  in  the  shock 
of  unexpected  discovery  and  amazed  inter 
est.  There  were  six  of  the  clippings,  all 
from  English  papers,  English  in  their 
terseness,  brief  as  stock  exchange  reports, 
and  equally  to  the  point.  He  read  the  six 
in  three  minutes. 

They  simply  stated  that  Derwent  Con- 
niston,  of  the  Connistons  of  Darlington, 
was  wanted  for  burglary — and  that  up  to 
date  he  had  not  been  found. 


170          THE  RIVER'S  END 

Keith  gave  a  gasp  of  incredulity.  He 
looked  again  to  see  that  his  eyes  were  not 
tricking  him.  And  it  was  there  in  cold, 
implacable  print. 

Derwent  Conniston — that  phoenix  among 
men,  by  whom  he  had  come  to  measure  all 
other  men,  that  Crichton  of  nerve,  of  calm 
and  audacious  courage,  of  splendid  poise 
— a  burglar!  It  was  cheap,  farcical,  an 
impossible  absurdity.  Had  it  been  murder, 
high  treason,  defiance  of  some  great  law,  a 
great  crime  inspired  by  a  great  passion  or 
a  great  ideal,  but  it  was  burglary,  brigan 
dage  of  the  cheapest  and  most  common 
place  variety,  a  sneaking  night-coward's 
plagiarism  of  real  adventure  and  real 
crime.  It  was  impossible.  Keith  gritted 
the  words  aloud.  He  might  have  accepted 
Conniston  as  a  Dick  Turpin,  a  Claude 
Duval  or  a  Macheath,  but  not  as  a  Jeremy 
Diddler  or  a  Bill  Sykes.  The  printed  lines 
were  lies.  They  must  be.  Derwent  Con 
niston  might  have  killed  a  dozen  men,  but 
he  had  never  cracked  a  safe.  To  think  it 
was  to  think  the  inconceivable. 

He  turned  to  the  letters.  They  were 
postmarked  Darlington,  England.  His 


THE  RIVER'S  END  171; 

fingers  tingled  as  he  opened  the  first.  It 
was  as  he  had  expected,  as  he  had  hoped. 
They  were  from  Mary  Josephine.  He  ar 
ranged  them — nine  in  all — in  the  sequence 
of  their  dates,  which  ran  back  nearly  eight 
years.  All  of  them  had  been  written 
within  a  period  of  eleven  months.  They 
were  as  legible  as  print.  And  as  he  passed 
from  the  first  to  the  second,  and  from  the 
second  to  the  third,  and  then  read  on 
into  the  others,  he  forgot  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  time  and  that  Mary  Josephine 
was  waiting  for  him.  The  clippings  had 
told  him  one  thing;  here,  like  bits  of 
driftage  to  be  put  together,  a  line  in  this 
place  and  half  a  dozen  in  that,  in  para 
graphs  that  enlightened  and  in  others  that 
puzzled,  was  the  other  side  of  the  story,  a 
growing  thing  that  rose  up  out  of  mystery 
and  doubt  in  segments  and  fractions  of 
segments  adding  themselves  together  piece 
meal,  welding  the  whole  into  form  and 
substance,  until  there  rode  through  Keith's 
veins  a  wild  thrill  of  exultation  and 
triumph. 

And    then   he   came   to   the    ninth    and 
last   letter.    It   was   in    a    different   hand- 


fi72          THE  RIVER'S  END 

writing,  brief,  with  a  deadly  specificness 
about  it  that  gripped  Keith  as  he  read. 

This  ninth  letter  he  held  in  his  hand  as 
he  rose  from  the  table,  and  out  of  his 
mouth  there  fell,  unconsciously,  Connis- 
ton's  own  words,  "  It's  devilish  queer,  old 
top — and  funny!" 

There  was  no  humor  in  the  way  he 
spoke  them.  His  voice  was  hard,  his  eyes 
dully  ablaze.  He  was  looking  back  into 
that  swirling,  unutterable  loneliness  of  the 
northland,  and  he  was  seeing  Conniston 
again. 

Fiercely  he  caught  up  the  clippings, 
struck  a  match,  and  with  a  grim  smile 
watched  them  as  they  curled  up  into 
flame  and  crumbled  into  ash.  What  a  lie 
was  life,  what  a  malformed  thing  was 
justice,  what  a  monster  of  iniquity  the 
man-fabricated  thing  called  law! 

And  again  he  found  himself  speaking, 
as  if  the  dead  Englishman  himself  were 
repeating  the  words,  "  It's  devilish  queer, 
old  top — and  funny!" 


XIV 

A  QUARTER  of  an  hour  later,  with 
Mary  Josephine  at  his  side,  he  was 
walking  down  the  green  slope  toward  the 
Saskatchewan.  In  that  direction  lay  the 
rims  of  timber,  the  shimmering  valley,  and 
the  broad  pathways  that  opened  into  the 
plains  beyond. 

The  town  was  at  their  backs,  and  Keith 
wanted  it  there.  He  wanted  to  keep 
McDowell,  and  Shan  Tung,  and  Miriam 
Kirkstone  as  far  away  as  possible,  until  his 
mind  rode  more  smoothly  in  the  new  orbit 
in  which  it  was  still  whirling  a  bit  un 
steadily.  More  than  all  else  he  wanted 
to  be  alone  with  Mary  Josephine,  to  make 
sure  of  her,  to  convince  himself  utterly 
that  she  was  his  to  go  on  fighting  for. 
He  sensed  the  nearness  and  the  magnitude 
of  the  impending  drama.  He  knew  that 
today  he  must  face  Shan  Tung,  that  again 
he  must  go  under  the  battery  of  Mc 
Dowell's  eyes  and  brain,  and  that  like  a 

173 


174  THE  RIVER'S  END 

fish  in  treacherous  waters  he  must  swim 
cleverly  to  avoid  the  nets  that  would  en 
tangle  and  destroy  him.  Today  was  the 
day — the  stage  was  set,  the  curtain  about 
to  be  lifted,  the  play  ready  to  be  enacted. 
But  before  it  was  the  prologue.  And  the 
prologue  was  Mary  Josephine's. 

At  the  crest  of  a  dip  halfway  down  the 
slope  they  had  paused,  and  in  this  pause  he 
stood  a  half-step  behind  her  so  that  he 
could  look  at  her  for  a  moment  without 
being  observed.  She  was  bareheaded,  and 
it  came  upon  him  all  at  once  how  wonder 
ful  was  a  woman's  hair,  how  beautiful  be 
yond  all  other  things  beautiful  and  de 
sirable.  In  twisted,  glowing  seductiveness 
it  was  piled  up  on  Mary  Josephine's  head, 
transformed  into  brown  and  gold  glories 
by  the  sun.  He  wanted  to  put  forth  his 
hand  to  it,  and  bury  his  fingers  in  it,  and 
feel  the  thrill  and  the  warmth  and  the 
crush  of  the  palpitant  life  of  it  against  his 
own  flesh.  And  then,  bending  a  little  for 
ward,  he  saw  under  her  long  lashes  the 
sheer  joy  of  life  shining  in  her  eyes  as  she 
drank  in  the  wonderful  panorama  that 
lay  below  them  to  the  west.  Last  night's 


THE  RIVER'S  END  175 

rain  had  freshened  it,  the  sun  glorified  it 
now,  and  the  fragrance  of  earthly  smells 
that  rose  up  to  them  from  it  was  the  unde- 
filed  breath  of  a  thing  living  and  awake. 
Even  to  Keith  the  river  had  never  looked 
more  beautiful,  and  never  had  his  yearn 
ings  gone  out  to  it  more  strongly  than  in 
this  moment,  to  the  river  and  beyond — and 
to  the  back  of  beyond,  where  the  moun 
tains  rose  up  to  meet  the  blue  sky  and  the 
river  itself  was  born.  And  he  heard  Mary 
Josephine's  voice,  joyously  suppressed,  ex 
claiming  softly, 

"Oh,  Deny!" 

His  heart  was  filled  with  gladness.  She, 
too,  was  seeing  what  his  eyes  saw  in  that 
wonderland.  And  she  was  feeling  it.  Her 
hand,  seeking  his  hand,  crept  into  his  palm, 
and  the  fingers  of  it  clung  to  his  fingers. 
He  could  feel  the  thrill  of  the  miracle 
passing  through  her,  the  miracle  of  the 
open  spaces,  the  miracle  of  the  forests  ris 
ing  billow  on  billow  to  the  purple  mists 
of  the  horizon,  the  miracle  of  the  golden 
Saskatchewan  rolling  slowly  and  peace 
fully  in  its  slumbering  sheen  out  of  that 
mighty  mysteryland  that  reached  to  the 


176          THE  RIVER'S  END 

lap  of  the  setting  sun.  He  spoke  to  her 
of  that  land  as  she  looked,  wide-eyed, 
quick-breathing,  her  fingers  closing  still 
more  tightly  about  his.  This  was  but  the 
beginning  of  the  glory  of  the  west  and  the 
north,  he  told  her.  Beyond  that  low  hori 
zon,  where  the  tree  tops  touched  the  sky 
were  the  prairies — not  the  tiresome  monot 
ony  which  she  had  seen  from  the  car 
windows,  but  the  wide,  glorious,  God-given 
country  of  the  Northwest  with  its  thou 
sands  of  lakes  and  rivers  and  its  tens  of 
thousands  of  square  miles  of  forests;  and 
beyond  those  things,  still  farther,  were  the 
foothills,  and  beyond  the  foothills  the 
mountains.  And  in  those  mountains  the 
river  down  there  had  its  beginning. 

She  looked  up  swiftly,  her  eyes  brim 
ming  with  the  golden  flash  of  the  sun. 
"  It  is  wonderful !  And  just  over  there 
is  the  town !  " 

"  Yes,    and    beyond    the    town    are    the 


cities." 


"  And  off  there- 


"  God's  country,"  said  Keith  devoutly. 
Mary   Josephine   drew   a   deep   breath. 
"And    people    still    live    in    towns    and 


THE  RIVER'S  END  177 

cities!"  she  exclaimed  in  wondering 
credulity.  "  I've  dreamed  of  *  over  here,' 
Derry,  but  I  never  dreamed  that.  And 
you've  had  it  for  years  and  years,  while 
I— oh,  Derry!" 

And  again  those  two  words  filled  his 
heart  with  gladness,  words  of  loving  re 
proach,  atremble  with  the  mysterious  whis 
per  of  a  great  desire.  For  she  was  looking 
into  the  west.  And  her  eyes  and  her  heart 
and  her  soul  were  in  the  west,  and  sud 
denly  Keith  saw  his  way  as  though  lighted 
by  a  flaming  torch.  He  came  near  to  for 
getting  that  he  was  Conniston.  He  spoke 
of  his  dream,  his  desire,  and  told  her  that 
last  night — before  she  came — he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  go.  She  had  come  to  him 
just  in  time.  A  little  later  and  he  would 
have  been  gone,  buried  utterly  away  from 
the  world  in  the  wonderland  of  the  moun 
tains.  And  now  they  would  go  together. 
They  would  go  as  he  had  planned  to  go, 
quietly,  unobtrusively;  they  would  slip 
away  and  disappear.  There  was  a  reason 
why  no  one  should  know,  not  even  Mc 
Dowell.  It  must  be  their  secret.  Some 
day  he  would  tell  her  why.  Her  heart 


178  THE  RIVER'S  END 

thumped  excitedly  as  he  went  on  like  a 
boy  planning  a  wonderful  day.  He  could 
see  the  swifter  beat  of  it  in  the  flush  that 
rose  into  her  face  and  the  joy  glowing 
tremulously  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at 
him.  They  would  get  ready  quietly. 
They  might  go  tomorrow,  the  next  day, 
any  time.  It  would  be  a  glorious  adven 
ture,  just  they  two,  with  all  the  vastness  of 
that  mountain  paradise  ahead  of  them. 

"We'll  be  pals,"  he  said.  "Just  you 
and  me,  Mary  Josephine.  We're  all  that's 
left." 

It  was  his  first  experiment,  his  first  refer 
ence  to  the  information  he  had  gained  in 
the  letters,  and  swift  as  a  flash  Mary  Jose 
phine's  eyes  turned  up  to  him.  He  nodded, 
smiling.  He  understood  their  quick  ques 
tioning,  and  he  held  her  hand  closer  and 
began  to  walk  with  her  down  the  slope. 

"  A  lot  of  it  came  back  last  night  and 
this  morning,  a  lot  of  it,"  he  explained. 
"  It's  queer  what  miracles  small  things  can 
work  sometimes,  isn't  it?  Think  what  a 
grain  of  sand  can  do  to  a  watch!  This 
was  one  of  the  small  things."  He  was 
still  smiling  as  he  touched  the  scar  on 


THE  RIVER'S  END  179 

his  forehead.  "  And  you,  you  were  the 
other  miracle.  And  I'm  remembering.  It 
doesn't  seem  like  seven  or  eight  years,  but 
only  yesterday,  that  the  grain  of  sand  got 
mixed  up  somewhere  in  the  machinery  in 
my  head.  And  I  guess  there  was  another 
reason  for  my  going  wrong.  You'll  under 
stand,  when  I  tell  you." 

Had  he  been  Conniston  it  could  not  have 
come  from  him  more  naturally,  more  sin 
cerely.  He  was  living  the  great  lie,  and 
yet  to  him  it  was  no  longer  a  lie.  He  did 
not  hesitate,  as  shame  and  conscience  might 
have  made  him  hesitate.  He  was  fighting 
that  something  beautiful  might  be  raised 
up  out  of  chaos  and  despair  and  be  made 
to  exist;  he  was  fighting  for  life  in  place 
of  death,  for  happiness  in  place  of  grief, 
for  light  in  place  of  darkness — fighting  to 
save  where  others  would  destroy.  There 
fore  the  great  lie  was  not  a  lie  but  a  thing 
without  venom  or  hurt,  an  instrument  for 
happiness  and  for  all  the  things  good  and 
beautiful  that  went  to  make  happiness.  It 
was  his  one  great  weapon.  Without  it  he 
would  fail,  and  failure  meant  desolation. 
So  he  spoke  convincingly,  for  what  he 


i8o          THE  RIVER'S  END 

said  came  straight  from  the  heart  though 
it  was  born  in  the  shadow  of  that  one 
master-falsehood.  His  wonder  was  that 
Mary  Josephine  believed  him  so  utterly 
that  not  for  an  instant  was  there  a  ques 
tioning  doubt  in  her  eyes  or  on  her  lips. 

He  told  her  how  much  he  "  remem 
bered,"  which  was  no  more  and  no  less 
than  he  had  learned  from  the  letters  and 
the  clippings.  The  story  did  not  appeal 
to  him  as  particularly  unusual  or  dramatic. 
He  had  passed  through  too  many  tragic 
happenings  in  the  last  four  years  to  regard 
it  in  that  way.  It  was  simply  an  unfor 
tunate  affair  beginning  in  misfortune,  and 
with  its  necessary  whirlwind  of  hurt  and 
sorrow.  The  one  thing  of  shame  he  would 
not  keep  out  of  his  mind  was  that  he, 
Derwent  Conniston,  must  have  been  a  poor 
type  of  big  brother  in  those  days  of  nine 
or  ten  years  ago,  even  though  little  Mary 
Josephine  had  worshiped  him.  He  was 
well  along  in  his  twenties  then.  The  Con- 
nistons  of  Darlington  were  his  uncle  and 
aunt,  and  his  uncle  was  a  more  or  less 
prominent  figure  in  ship-building  interests 
on  the  Clyde.  With  these  people  the  three 


THE  RIVER'S  END  181 

• — himself,  Mary  Josephine,  and  his 
brother  Egbert — had  lived,  "  farmed  out " 
to  a  hard-necked,  flinty-hearted  pair  of 
relatives  because  of  a  brother's  stipulation 
and  a  certain  English  law.  With  them 
they  had  existed  in  mutual  discontent  and 
dislike.  Derwent,  when  he  became  old 
enough,  had  stepped  over  the  traces.  All 
this  Keith  had  gathered  from  the  letters, 
but  there  was  a  great  deal  that  was  miss 
ing.  Egbert,  he  gathered,  must  have  been 
a  scapegrace.  He  was  a  cripple  of  some 
sort  and  seven  or  eight  years  his  junior. 
In  the  letters  Mary  Josephine  had  spoken 
of  him  as  "  poor  Egbert,"  pitying  instead 
of  condemning  him,  though  it  was  Egbert 
who  had  brought  tragedy  and  separation 
upon  them.  One  night  Egbert  had  broken 
open  the  Conniston  safe  and  in  the  dark 
ness  had  had  a  fight  and  a  narrow  escape 
from  his  uncle,  who  laid  the  crime  upon 
Derwent.  And  Derwent,  in  whom  Egbert 
must  have  confided,  had  fled  to  America 
that  the  cripple  might  be  saved,  with  the 
promise  that  some  day  he  would  send  for 
Mary  Josephine.  He  was  followed  by  the 
uncle's  threat  that  if  he  ever  returned  to 


i82          THE  RIVER'S  END 

England,  he  would  be  jailed.  Not  long 
afterward  "  poor  Egbert "  was  found  dead 
in  bed,  fearfully  contorted.  Keith  guessed 
there  had  been  something  mentally  as  well 
as  physically  wrong  with  him. 

" — And  I  was  going  to  send  for  you," 
he  said,  as  they  came  to  the  level  of  the 
valley.  "  My  plans  were  made,  and  I  was 
going  to  send  for  you,  when  this  came." 

He  stopped,  and  in  a  few  tense,  breath 
less  moments  Mary  Josephine  read  the 
ninth  and  last  letter  he  had  taken  from  the 
Englishman's  chest. 

It  was  from  her  uncle.  In  a  dozen  lines 
it  stated  that  she,  Mary  Josephine,  was 
dead,  and  it  reiterated  the  threat  against 
Derwent  Conniston  should  he  ever  dare  to 
return  to  England. 

A  choking  cry  came  to  her  lips.  "  And 
that — that  was  it?  " 

"  Yes,  that — and  the  hurt  in  my  head," 
he  said,  remembering  the  part  he  must 
play.  "  They  came  at  about  the  same  time, 
and  the  two  of  them  must  have  put  the 
grain  of  sand  in  my  brain." 

It  was  hard  to  lie  now,  looking  straight 
into  her  face  that  had  gone  suddenly  white, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  183 

and  with  her  wonderful  eyes  burning  deep 
into  his  soul. 

She  did  not  seem,  for  an  instant,  to  hear 
his  voice  or  sense  his  words.  "  I  under 
stand  now,"  she  was  saying,  the  letter 
crumpling  in  her  fingers.  "  I  was  sick  for 
almost  a  year,  Derry.  They  thought  I  was 
going  to  die.  He  must  have  written  it 
then,  and  they  destroyed  my  letters  to  you, 
and  when  I  was  better  they  told  me  you 
were  dead,  and  then  I  didn't  write  any 
more.  And  I  wanted  to  die.  And  then, 
almost  a  year  ago,  Colonel  Reppington 
came  to  me,  and  his  dear  old  voice  was  so 
excited  that  it  trembled,  and  he  told  me 
that  he  believed  you  were  alive.  A  friend 
of  his  had  just  returned  from  British 
Columbia,  and  this  friend  told  him  that 
three  years  before,  while  on  a  grizzly 
shooting  trip,  he  had  met  a  man  named 
Conniston,  an  Englishman.  We  wrote  a 
hundred  letters  up  there  and  found  the 
man,  Jack  Otto,  who  was  in  the  moun 
tains  with  you,  and  then  I  knew  you  were 
alive.  But  we  couldn't  find  you  after  that, 
and  so  I  came— 

He  would   have  wagered   that  she  was 


1 84          THE  RIVER'S  END 

going  to  cry,  but  she  fought  the  tears  back, 
smiling. 

"And — and  I've  found  you!"  she  fin 
ished  triumphantly. 

She  snuggled  close  to  him,  and  he 
slipped  an  arm  about  her  waist,  and  they 
walked  on.  She  told  him  about  her  ar 
rival  in  Halifax,  how  Colonel  Reppington 
had  given  her  letters  to  nice  people  in 
Montreal  and  Winnipeg,  and  how  it  hap 
pened  one  day  that  she  found  his  name  in 
one  of  the  Mounted  Police  blue  books,  and 
after  that  came  on  as  fast  as  she  could  to 
surprise  him  at  Prince  Albert.  When  she 
came  to  that  point,  Keith  pointed  once 
more  into  the  west  and  said : 

"  And  there  is  our  new  world.  Let  us 
'forget  the  old.  Shall  we,  Mary  Jose 
phine?" 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  and  her  hand 
sought  his  again  and  crept  into  it,  warm 
and  confident. 


XV 

went  on  through  the  golden 
JL  morning,  the  earth  damp  under  their 
feet,  the  air  filled  with  its  sweet  incense, 
on  past  scattered  clumps  of  balsams  and 
cedars  until  they  came  to  the  river  and 
looked  down  on  its  yellow  sand-bars  glis 
tening  in  the  sun.  The  town  was  hidden. 
They  heard  no  sound  from  it.  And  look 
ing  up  the  great  Saskatchewan,  the  river 
of  mystery,  of  romance,  of  glamour,  they 
saw  before  them,  where  the  spruce  walls 
seemed  to  meet,  the  wide-open  door  through 
which  they  might  pass  into  the  western 
land  beyond.  Keith  pointed  it  out.  And 
he  pointed  out  the  yellow  bars,  the  glisten 
ing  shores  of  sand,  and  told  her  how 
even  as  far  as  this,  a  thousand  miles  by 
river — those  sands  brought  gold  with  them 
from  the  mountains,  the  gold  whose 
treasure-house  no  man  had  ever  found,  and 
which  must  be  hidden  up  there  somewhere 
near  the  river's  end.  His  dream,  like 
IBs 


1 86          THE  RIVER'S  END 

Duggan's,  had  been  to  find  it.    Now  they 
would  search  for  it  together. 

Slowly  he  was  picking  his  way  so  that 
at  last  they   came   to   the   bit  of   cleared 
timber  in  which  was  his  old  home.     His 
heart    choked    him    as    they    drew    near. 
There  was  an  uncomfortable  tightness  in 
his   breath.     The   timber  was   no   longer 
"  clear."     In   four  years  younger  genera 
tions   of   life   had   sprung  up   among   the 
trees,    and    the    place    was  jungle-ridden. 
They   were    within    a    few    yards    of    the 
house  before  Mary  Josephine  s«w  it,  and 
then    she   stopped    suddenly  with    a   little 
gasp.      For   this   that   she   faced   was   not 
desertion,  was  not  mere   neglect.     It  was 
tragedy.     She  saw  in  an  instant  that  there 
was  no  life  in  this  place,  and  yet  it  stood 
as  if  tenanted.     It  was  a  log  chateau  with 
a  great,   red   chimney  rising  at  one  end. 
Curtains    and    shades    still    hung    at    the 
windows.    There  were  three  chairs  on  the 
broad  veranda  that  looked  riverward.    But 
two  of  the  windows  were  broken,  and  the 
chairs  were  falling  into  ruin.     There  was 
no  life.    They  were  facing  only  the  ghosts 
of  life. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  187 

A  swift  glance  into  Keith's  face  told  her 
this  was  so.  His  lips  were  set  tight.  There 
was  a  strange  look  in  his  face.  Hand  in 
hand  they  had  come  up,  and  her  fingers 
pressed  his  tighter  now. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  is  John  Keith's  home  as  he  left  it 
four  years  ago,"  he  replied. 

The  suspicious  break  in  his  voice  drew 
her  eyes  from  the  chateau  to  his  own  again. 
She  could  see  him  righting.  There  was  a 
twitching  in  his  throat.  His  hand  was 
gripping  hers  until  it  hurt. 

"John  Keith?"  she  whispered  softly. 

"  Yes,  John  Keith." 

She  inclined  her  head  so  that  it  rested 
lightly  and  affectionately  against  his  arm. 
"  You  must  have  thought  a  great  deal  of 
him,  Derry." 

"  Yes." 

He  freed  her  hand,  and  his  fists  clenched 
convulsively.  She  could  feel  the  cording 
of  the  muscles  in  his  arm,  his  face  was 
white,  and  in  his  eyes  was  a  fixed  stare 
that  startled  her.  He  fumbled  in  a  pocket 
and  drew  out  a  key. 

"  I    promised,    when    he    died,    that    I 


[i88          THE  RIVER'S  END 

would  go  in  and  take  a  last  look  for  him," 
he  said.  "  He  loved  this  place.  Do  you 
want  to  go  with  me?  " 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  Yes." 
The  key  opened  the  door  that  entered  on 
the  veranda.  As  it  swung  back,  grating  on 
its  rusty  hinges,  they  found  themselves  fac 
ing  the  chill  of  a  cold  and  lifeless  air. 
Keith  stepped  inside.  A  glance  told  him 
that  nothing  was  changed — everything  was 
there  in  that  room  with  the  big  fireplace, 
even  as  he  had  left  it  the  night  he  set  out 
to  force  justice  from  Judge  Kirkstone. 
One  thing  startled  him.  On  the  dust- 
covered  table  was  a  bowl  and  a  spoon.  He 
remembered  vividly  how  he  had  eaten  his 
supper  that  night  of  bread  and  milk.  It 
was  the  littleness  of  the  thing,  the  sim 
plicity  of  it,  that  shocked  him.  The  bowl 
and  spoon  were  still  there  after  four  years. 
He  did  not  reflect  that  they  were  as  im 
perishable  as  all  the  other  things  about; 
the  miracle  was  that  they  were  there  on 
the  table,  as  though  he  had  used  them  only 
yesterday.  The  most  trivial  things  in  the 
room  struck  him  deepest,  and  he  found 


THE  RIVER'S  END  189 

himself  fighting  hard,  for  a  moment,  to 
keep  his  nerve. 

"  He  told  me  about  the  bowl  and  the 
spoon.  John  Keith  did,"  he  said,  nodding 
toward  them.  "  He  told  me  just  what  I'd 
find  here,  even  to  that.  You  see,  he  loved 
the  place  greatly  and  everything  that  was 
in  it.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  forget 
even  the  bowl  and  the  spoon  and  where  he 
had  left  them." 

It  was  easier  after  that.  The  old  home 
was  whispering  back  its  memories  to  him, 
and  he  told  them  to  Mary  Josephine  as 
they  went  slowly  from  room  to  room,  until 
John  Keith  was  living  there  before  her 
again,  the  John  Keith  whom  Derwent 
Conniston  had  run  to  his  death.  It  was 
this  thing  that  gripped  her,  and  at  last 
what  was  in  her  mind  found  voice. 

"  It  wasn't  you  who  made  him  die,  was 
it,  Derry?  It  wasn't  you?  " 

"  No.  It  was  the  law.  He  died,  as  I 
told  you,  of  a  frosted  lung.  At  the  last  I 
would  have  shared  my  life  with  him  had  it 
been  possible.  McDowell  must  never 
know  that.  You  must  never  speak  of 
John  Keith  before  him." 


190          THE  RIVER'S  END 

"  I — I  understand,  Derry." 

"  And  he  must  not  know  that  we  came 
here.  To  him  John  Keith  was  a  murderer 
whom  it  was  his  duty  to  hang." 

She  was  looking  at  him  strangely. 
Never  had  he  seen  her  look  at  him  in  that 
way. 

"  Derry,"  she  whispered. 

"Yes?" 

"  Derry,  is  John  Keith  alive?" 

He  started.  The  shock  of  the  question 
was  in  his  face.  He  caught  himself,  but 
it  was  too  late.  And  in  an  instant  her  hand 
was  at  his  mouth,  and  she  was  whispering 
eagerly,  almost  fiercely: 

"No,  no,  no — don't  answer  me,  Derry! 
Don't  answer  me!  I  know,  and  I  under 
stand,  and  I'm  glad,  glad,  glad!  He's 
alive,  and  it  was  you  who  let  him  live, 
the  big,  glorious  brother  I'm  proud  of! 
And  everyone  else  thinks  he's  dead.  But 
don't  answer  me,  Derry,  don't  answer 
me!" 

She  was  trembling  against  him.  His 
arms  closed  about  her,  and  he  held  her 
nearer  to  his  heart,  and  longer,  than  he 
had  ever  held  her  before.  He  kissed  her 


THE  RIVER'S  END  191 

hair  many  times,  and  her  lips  once,  and 
up  about  his  neck  her  arms  twined  softly, 
and  a  great  brightness  was  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  understand,"  she  whispered  again. 
"  I  understand." 

"  And  I — I  must  answer  you,"  he  said. 
"  I  must  answer  you,  because  I  love  you, 
and  because  you  must  know.  Yes,  John 
Keith  is  alive  1 " 


XVI 

AN  hour  later,  alone  and  heading  for 
the  inspector's  office,  Keith  felt  in 
battle  trim.  His  head  was  fairly  singing 
with  the  success  of  the  morning.  Since  the 
opening  of  Conniston's  chest  many  things 
had  happened,  and  he  was  no  longer  fac 
ing  a  blank  wall  of  mystery.  His  chief 
cause  of  exhilaration  was  Mary  Josephine. 
She  wanted  to  go  away  with  him.  She 
wanted  to  go  with  him  anywhere,  every 
where,  as  long  as  they  were  together. 
When  she  had  learned  that  his  term  of 
enlistment  was  about  to  expire  and  that  if 
he  remained  in  the  Service  he  would  be 
away  from  her  a  great  deal,  she  had 
pleaded  with  him  not  to  reenlist.  She  did 
not  question  him  when  he  told  her  that  it 
might  be  necessary  to  go  away  very  sud 
denly,  without  letting  another  soul  know 
of  their  movements,  not  even  Wallie.  In 
tuitively  she  guessed  that  the  reason  had 
something  to  do  with  John  Keith,  for  he 
192 


THE  RIVER'S  END  193 

had  let  the  fear  grow  in  her  that  Mc 
Dowell  might  discover  he  had  been  a 
traitor  to  the  Service,  in  which  event  the 
Law  itself  would  take  him  away  from  her 
for  a  considerable  number  of  years.  And 
with  that  fear  she  was  more  than  ever 
eager  for  the  adventure,  and  planned  with 
him  for  its  consummation. 

Another  thing  cheered  Keith.  He  was 
no  longer  the  absolute  liar  of  yesterday,  for 
by  a  fortunate  chance  he  had  been  able  to 
tell  her  that  John  Keith  was  alive.  This 
most  important  of  all  truths  he  had  con 
fided  to  her,  and  the  confession  had 
roused  in  her  a  comradeship  that  had 
proclaimed  itself  ready  to  fight  for  him 
or  run  away  with  him.  Not  for  an  in 
stant  had  she  regretted  the  action  he  had 
taken  in  giving  Keith  his  freedom.  He 
was  peculiarly  happy  because  of  that.  She 
was  glad  John  Keith  was  alive. 

And  now  that  she  knew  the  story  of  the 
old  home  down  in  the  clump  of  timber  and 
of  the  man  who  had  lived  there,  she  was 
anxious  to  meet  Miriam  Kirkstone,  daugh 
ter  of  the  man  he  had  killed.  Keith  had 
promised  her  they  would  go  up  that  after- 


194          THE  RIVER'S  END 

noon.  Within  himself  he  knew  that  he  was 
not  sure  of  keeping  the  promise.  There  was 
much  to  do  in  the  next  few  hours,  and 
much  might  happen.  In  fact  there  was 
but  little  speculation  about  it.  This  was 
the  big  day.  Just  what  it  held  for  him  he 
could  not  be  sure  until  he  saw  Shan  Tung. 
Any  instant  might  see  him  put  to  the  final 
test. 

Cruze  was  pacing  slowly  up  and  down 
the  hall  when  Keith  entered  the  building 
in  which  McDowell  had  his  offices.  The 
young  secretary's  face  bore  a  perplexed 
and  rather  anxious  expression.  His  hands 
were  buried  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets, 
and  he  was  puffing  a  cigarette.  At  Keith's 
appearance  he  brightened  up  a  bit. 

"  Don't  know  what  to  make  of  the 
governor  this  morning,  by  Jove  I  don't!" 
he  explained,  nodding  toward  the  closed 
doors.  "  I've  got  instructions  to  let  no  one 
near  him  except  you.  You  may  go  in." 

"What  seems  to  be  the  matter?"  Keith 
felt  out  cautiously. 

Cruze  shrugged  his  thin  shoulders, 
flipped  the  ash  from  his  cigarette,  and 
with  a  grimace  said,  "  Shan  Tung." 


THE  RIVER'S  END  195 

"  Shan  Tung?  "  Keith  spoke  the  name  in 
a  sibilant  whisper.  Every  nerve  in  him 
had  jumped,  and  for  an  instant  he  thought 
he  had  betrayed  himself.  Shan  Tung  had 
been  there  early.  And  now  McDowell 
was  waiting  for  him  and  had  given  in 
structions  that  no  other  should  be  ad 
mitted.  If  the  Chinaman  had  exposed 
him,  why  hadn't  McDowell  sent  officers  up 
to  the  Shack?  That  was  the  first  question 
that  jumped  into  his  head.  The  answer 
came  as  quickly — McDowell  had  not  sent 
officers  because,  hating  Shan  Tung,  he  had 
not  believed  his  story.  But  he  was  wait 
ing  there  to  investigate.  A  chill  crept  over 
Keith. 

Cruze  was  looking  at  him  intently. 
"  There's  something  to  this  Shan  Tung 
business,"  he  said.  "  It's  even  getting  on 
the  old  man's  nerves.  And  he's  very 
anxious  to  see  you,  Mr.  Conniston.  I've 
called  you  up  half  a  dozen  times  in  the 
last  hour." 

He  flipped  away  his  cigarette,  turned 
alertly,  and  moved  toward  the  inspector's 
door.  Keith  wanted  to  call  him  back,  to 
leap  upon  him,  if  necessary,  and  drag  him 


196          THE  RIVER'S  END 

away  from  that  deadly  door.  But  he 
neither  moved  nor  spoke  until  it  was  too 
late.  The  door  opened,  he  heard  Cruze 
announce  his  presence,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  the  words  were  scarcely  out  of  the 
secretary's  mouth  when  McDowell  himself 
stood  in  the  door. 

"Come  in,  Conniston,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Come  in." 

It  was  not  McDowell's  voice.  It  was 
restrained,  terrible.  It  was  the  voice  of  a 
man  speaking  softly  to  cover  a  terrific  fire 
raging  within.  Keith  felt  himself  doomed. 
Even  as  he  entered,  his  mind  was  swiftly 
gathering  itself  for  the  last  play,  the  play 
he  had  set  for  himself  if  the  crisis  came. 
He  would  cover  McDowell,  bind  and  gag 
him  even  as  Cruze  sauntered  in  the  hall, 
escape  through  a  window,  and  with  Mary 
Josephine  bury  himself  in  the  forests  be 
fore  pursuit  could  overtake  them.  There 
fore  his  amazement  was  unbounded  when 
McDowell,  closing  the  door,  seized  his 
hand  in  a  grip  that  made  him  wince,  and 
shook  it  with  unfeigned  gladness  and 
relief. 

"  I'm  not  condemning  you,   of  course," 


THE  RIVER'S  END  197 

he  said.  "  It  was  rather  beastly  of  me 
to  annoy  your  sister  before  you  were  up 
this  morning.  She  flatly  refused  to  rouse 
you,  and  by  George,  the  way  she  said  it 
made  me  turn  the  business  of  getting  into 
touch  with  you  over  to  Cruze.  Sit  down, 
Conniston.  I'm  going  to  explode  a  mine 
under  you." 

He  flung  himself  into  his  swivel  chair 
and  twisted  one  of  his  fierce  mustaches, 
while  his  eyes  blazed  at  Keith.  Keith 
waited.  He  saw  the  other  was  like  an 
animal  ready  to  spring  and  anxious  to 
spring,  the  one  evident  stricture  on  his 
desire  being  that  there  was  nothing  to 
spring  at  unless  it  was  himself. 

"  What  happened  last  night?  "  he  asked. 

Keith's  mind  was  already  working 
swiftly.  McDowell's  question  gave  him 
the  opportunity  of  making  the  first  play 
against  Shan  Tung. 

"  Enough  to  convince  me  that  I  am 
going  to  see  Shan  Tung  today,"  he  said. 

He  noticed  the  slow  clenching  and  un 
clenching  of  McDowell's  fingers  about  the 
arms  of  his  chair. 

"Then— I  was  right?" 


'198          THE  RIVER'S  END 

"  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  you 
were — up  to  a  certain  point.  I  shall  know 
positively  when  I  have  talked  with  Shan 
Tung."  ' 

He  smiled  grimly.  McDowell's  eyes 
were  no  harder  than  his  own.  The  iron 
man  drew  a  deep  breath  and  relaxed  a  bit 
in  his  chair. 

"  If  anything  should  happen,"  he  said, 
looking  away  from  Keith,  as  though  the 
speech  were  merely  casual,  "  if  he  attacks 
you " 

"  It  might  be  necessary  to  kill  him  in 
self-defense,"  finished  Keith. 

McDowell  made  no  sign  to  show  that 
he  had  heard,  yet  Keith  thrilled  with  the 
conviction  that  he  had  struck  home.  He 
went  on  telling  briefly  what  had  happened 
at  Miriam  Kirkstone's  house  the  preceding 
night.  McDowell's  face  was  purple  when 
he  described  the  evidences  of  Shan  Tung's 
presence  at  the  house  on  the  hill,  but  with 
a  mighty  effort  he  restrained  his  passion. 

"That's  it,  that's  it,"  he  exclaimed, 
choking  back  his  wrath.  "  I  knew  he  was 
there!  And  this  morning  both  of  them  lie 
about  it — both  of  them,  do  you  understand  I 


THE  RIVER'S  END  199 

She  lied,  looking  me  straight  in  the  eyes. 
And  he  lied,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  laughed  at  me,  curse  me  if  he 
didn't!  It  was  like  the  gurgle  of  oil.  I 
didn't  know  a  human  could  laugh  that 
way.  And  on  top  of  that  he  told  me 
something  that  I  won't  believe,  so  help  me 
God,  I  won't!" 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  began  pacing 
back  and  forth,  his  hands  clenched  behind 
him.  Suddenly  he  whirled  on  Keith. 

"  Why  in  heaven's  name  didn't  you  bring 
Keith  back  with  you,  or,  if  not  Keith,  at 
least  a  written  confession,  signed  by  him?  " 
he  demanded. 

This  was  a  blow  from  behind  for  Keith. 
"What — what  has  Keith  got  to  do  with 
this?  "  he  stumbled. 

"  More  than  I  dare  tell  you,  Conniston. 
But  'why  didn't  you  bring  back  a  signed 
confession  from  him?  A  dying  man  is 
usually  willing  to  make  that." 

"  If  he  is  guilty,  yes,"  agreed  Keith. 
"  But  this  man  was  a  different  sort.  If 
he  killed  Judge  Kirkstone,  he  had  no 
regret.  He  did  not  consider  himself  a 
criminal.  He  felt  that  he  had  dealt  out 


200          THE  RIVER'S  END 

justice  in  his  own  way,  and  therefore, 
even  when  he  was  dying,  he  would  not  sign 
anything  or  state  anything  definitely." 

McDowell  subsided  into  his  chair. 
"  And  the  curse  of  it  is  I  haven't  a  thing 
on  Shan  Tung,"  he  gritted.  "  Not  a  thing. 
Miriam  Kirkstone  is  her  own  mistress,  and 
in  the  eyes  of  the  law  he  is  as  innocent 
of  crime  as  I  am.  If  she  is  voluntarily 
giving  herself  as  a  victim  to  this  devil,  it 
is  her  own  business — legally,  you  under 
stand.  Morally— 

He  stopped,  his  savagely  gleaming  eyes 
boring  Keith  to  the  marrow. 

"  He  hates  you  as  a  snake  hates  fire 
water.  It  is  possible,  if  he  thought  the 
opportunity  had  come  to  him— 

Again  he  paused,  cryptic,  waiting  for 
the  other  to  gather  the  thing  he  had  not 
spoken.  Keith,  simulating  two  of  Con- 
niston's  tricks  at  the  same  time,  shrugged  a 
shoulder  and  twisted  a  mustache  as  he  rose 
to  his  feet.  He  smiled  coolly  down  at  the 
iron  man.  For  once  he  gave  a  passable 
imitation  of  the  Englishman. 

"  And  he's  going  to  have  the  opportunity 
today,"  he  said  understandingly.  "  I  think, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  201 

old  chap,  I'd  better  be  going.  I'm  rather 
anxious  to  see  Shan  Tung  before  dinner." 

McDowell  followed  him  to  the  door. 
His  face  had  undergone  a  change.  There 
was  a  tense  expectancy,  almost  an  eager 
ness  there.  Again  he  gripped  Keith's 
hand,  and  before  the  door  opened  he  said, 

"  If  trouble  comes  between  you  let  it 
be  in  the  open,  Conniston — in  the  open 
and  not  on  Shan  Tung's  premises." 

Keith  went  out,  his  pulse  quickening  to 
the  significance  of  the  iron  man's  words, 
and  wondering  what  the  "  mine  "  was  that 
McDowell  had  promised  to  explode,  but 
which  he  had  not. 


XVII 

KEITH  lost  no  time  in  heading  for  Shan 
Tung's.  He  was  like  a  man  playing 
chess,  and  the  moves  were  becoming  so 
swift  and  so  intricate  that  his  mind  had  no 
rest.  Each  hour  brought  forth  its  fresh 
necessities  and  its  new  alternatives.  It  was 
McDowell  who  had  given  him  his  last  cue, 
perhaps  the  surest  and  safest  method  of 
all  for  winning  his  game.  The  iron  man, 
that  disciple  of  the  Law  who  was  merciless 
in  his  demand  of  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a 
tooth  for  a  tooth,  had  let  him  understand 
that  the  world  would  be  better  off  without 
Shan  Tung.  This  man,  who  never  in  his 
life  had  found  an  excuse  for  the  killer,  now 
maneuvered  subtly  the  suggestion  for  a 
killing. 

Keith  was  both  shocked  and  amazed. 
"  If  anything  happens,  let  it  be  in  the  open 
and  not  on  Shan  Tung's  premises,"  he  had 
warned  him.  That  implied  in  McDowell's 
mind  a  cool  and  calculating  premeditation, 


202 


THE  RIVER'S  END  203 

the  assumption  that  if  Shan  Tung  was 
killed  it  would  be  in  self-defense.  And 
Keith's  blood  leaped  to  the  thrill  of  it. 
He  had  not  only  found  the  depths  of  Mc 
Dowell's  personal  interest  in  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone,  but  a  last  weapon  had  been  placed 
in  his  hands,  a  weapon  which  he  could  use 
this  day  if  it  became  necessary.  Cornered, 
with  no  other  hope  of  saving  himself,  he 
could  as  a  last  resort  kill  Shan  Tung — and 
McDowell  would  stand  behind  him! 

He  went  directly  to  Shan  Tung's  cafe 
and  sauntered  in.  There  were  large 
changes  in  it  since  four  years  ago.  The 
moment  he  passed  through  its  screened 
vestibule,  he  felt  its  oriental  exclusiveness, 
the  sleek  and  mysterious  quietness  of  it. 
One  might  have  found  such  a  place  cater 
ing  to  the  elite  of  a  big  city.  It  spoke 
sumptuously  of  a  large  expenditure  of 
money,  yet  there  was  nothing  bizarre  or 
irritating  to  the  senses.  Its  heavily-carved 
tables  were  almost  oppressive  in  their 
solidity.  Linen  and  silver,  like  Shan  Tung 
himself,  were  immaculate.  Magnificently 
embroidered  screens  were  so  cleverly  ar 
ranged  that  one  saw  not  all  of  the  place  at 


204          THE  RIVER'S  END 

once,  but  caught  vistas  of  it.  The  few 
voices  that  Keith  heard  in  this  pre-lunch 
hour  were  subdued,  and  the  speakers  were 
concealed  by  screens.  Two  orientals,  as 
immaculate  as  the  silver  and  linen,  were 
moving  about  with  the  silence  of  velvet- 
padded  lynxes.  A  third,  far  in  the  rear, 
stood  motionless  as  one  of  the  carven 
tables,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  watchful 
as  a  ferret.  This  was  Li  King,  Shan 
Tung's  right-hand  man. 

Keith  approached  him.  When  he  was 
near  enough,  Li  King  gave  the  slightest 
inclination  to  his  head  and  took  the  ciga 
rette  from  his  mouth.  Without  movement 
or  speech  he  registered  the  question, 
"  What  do  you  want?  " 

Keith  knew  this  to  be  a  bit  of  oriental 
guile.  In  his  mind  there  was  no  doubt  that 
Li  King  had  been  fully  instructed  by  his 
master  and  that  he  had  been  expecting 
him,  even  watching  for  him.  Convinced 
of  this,  he  gave  him  one  of  Conniston's 
cards  and  said, 

"Take  this  to  Shan  Tung.  He  is  ex 
pecting  me." 

Li  King  looked  at  the  card,  studied  it 


THE  RIVER'S  END  205 

for  a  moment  with  apparent  stupidity,  and 
shook  his  head.  "  Shan  Tung  no  home. 
Gone  away." 

That  was  all.  Where  he  had  gone  or 
when  he  would  return  Keith  could  not  dis 
cover  from  Li  King.  Of  all  other  matters 
except  that  he  had  gone  away  the  manager 
of  Shan  Tung's  affairs  was  ignorant. 
Keith  felt  like  taking  the  yellow-skinned 
hypocrite  by  the  throat  and  choking  some 
thing  out  of  him,  but  he  realized  that  Li 
King  was  studying  and  watching  him,  and 
that  he  would  report  to  Shan  Tupg  every 
expression  that  had  passed  over  his  face. 
So  he  looked  at  his  watch,  bought  a  cigar 
at  the  glass  case  near  the  cash  register,  and 
departed  with  a  cheerful  nod,  saying  that 
he  would  call  again. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  determined  on  a 
bold  stroke.  There  was  no  time  for  in 
decision  or  compromise.  He  must  find 
Shan  Tung  and  find  him  quickly.  And  he 
believed  that  Miriam  Kirkstone  could  give 
him  a  pretty  good  tip  as  to  his  where 
abouts.  He  steeled  himself  to  the  demand 
he  was  about  to  make  as  he  strode  up  to 
the  house  on  the  hill.  He  was  disap- 


206          THE  RIVER'S  END 

pointed  again.  Miss  Kirkstone  was  not  at 
home.  If  she  was,  she  did  not  answer  to 
his  knocking  and  bell  ringing. 

He  went  to  the  depot.  No  one  he  ques 
tioned  had  seen  Shan  Tung  at  the  west 
bound  train,  the  only  train  that  had  gone 
out  that  morning,  and  the  agent  emphati 
cally  disclaimed  selling  him  a  ticket. 
Therefore  he  had  not  gone  far.  Suspicion 
leaped  red  in  Keith's  brain.  His  imagina 
tion  pictured  Shan  Tung  at  that  moment 
with  Miriam  Kirkstone,  and  at  the  thought 
his  disgust  went  out  against  them  both.  In 
this  humor  he  returned  to  McDowell's  of 
fice.  He  stood  before  his  chief,  leaning 
toward  him  over  the  desk  table.  This  time 
he  was  the  inquisitor. 

"  Plainly  speaking,  this  liaison  is  their 
business,"  he  declared.  "  Because  he  is 
yellow  and  she  is  white  doesn't  make  it 
ours.  I've  just  had  a  hunch.  And  I  be 
lieve  in  following  hunches,  especially  when 
one  hits  you  good  and  hard,  and  this  one 
has  given  me  a  jolt  that  means  something. 
Where  is  that  big  fat  brother  of  hers?  " 

McDowell      hesitated.       "  It     isn't     a 


THE  RIVER'S  END  207 

liaison,"  he  temporized.  "  It's  one-sided 
—a  crime  against— 

"  Where  is  that  big  fat  brother?  "  With 
each  word  Keith  emphasized  his  demand 
with  a  thud  of  his  fist  on  the  table. 
"  Where  is  he?  " 

McDowell  was  deeply  perturbed.  Keith 
could  see  it  and  waited. 

After  a  moment  of  silence  the  iron  man 
rose  from  the  swivel  chair,  walked  to  the 
window,  gazed  out  for  another  moment, 
and  walked  back  again,  twisting  one  of 
his  big  gray  mustaches  in  a  way  that  be 
trayed  the  stress  of  his  emotion.  "  Con 
found  it,  Conniston,  you've  got  a  mind  for 
seeking  out  the  trivialities,  and  little  things 
are  sometimes  the  most  embarrassing." 

"  And  sometimes  most  important," 
added  Keith.  "  For  instance,  it  strikes  me 
as  mighty  important  that  we  should  know 
where  Peter  Kirkstone  is  and  why  he  is 
not  here  fighting  for  his  sister's  salvation. 
Where  is  he?" 

"  I  don't  know.  He  disappeared  from 
town  a  month  ago.  Miriam  says  he  is 
somewhere  in  British  Columbia  looking 


208  THE  RIVER'S  END 

over  some  old  mining  properties.  She 
doesn't  know  just  where." 

"  And  you  believe  her?  " 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  There 
was  no  longer  excuse  for  equivocation. 
Both  understood. 

McDowell  smiled  in  recognition  of  the 
fact.  "  No.  I  think,  Conniston,  that  she 
is  the  most  wonderful  little  liar  that  lives. 
And  the  beautiful  part  of  it  is,  she  is  lying 
for  a  purpose.  Imagine  Peter  Kirkstone, 
who  isn't  worth  the  powder  to  blow  him 
to  Hades,  interested  in  old  mines  or  any 
thing  else  that  promises  industry  or  pro 
duction!  And  the  most  inconceivable 
thing  about  the  whole  mess  is  that  Miriam 
worships  that  fat  and  worthless  pig  of  a 
brother.  I've  tried  to  find  him  in  British 
Columbia.  Failed,  of  course.  Another 
proof  that  this  affair  between  Miriam  and 
Shan  Tung  isn't  a  voluntary  liaison  on  her 
part.  She's  lying.  She's  walking  on  a 
pavement  of  lies.  If  she  told  the 
truth " 

"  There  are  some  truths  which  one  can 
not  tell  about  oneself,"  interrupted  Keith. 
-<  They  must  be  discovered  or  buried.  And 


THE  RIVER'S  END  209 

Pm  going  deeper  into  this  prospecting  and 
undertaking  business  this  afternoon.  I've 
got  another  hunch.  I  think  I'll  have  some 
thing  interesting  to  report  before  night." 

Ten  minutes  later,  on  his  way  to  the 
Shack,  he  was  discussing  with  himself  the 
modus  operandi  of  that  "  hunch."  It  had 
come  to  him  in  an  instant,  a  flash  of  in 
spiration.  That  afternoon  he  would  see 
Miriam  Kirkstone  and  question  her  about 
Peter.  Then  he  would  return  to  Mc 
Dowell,  lay  stress  on  the  importance  of 
the  brother,  tell  him  that  he  had  a  clew 
which  he  wanted  to  follow,  and  suggest 
finally  a  swift  trip  to  British  Columbia. 
He  would  take  Mary  Josephine,  lie  low 
until  his  term  of  service  expired,  and  then 
report  by  letter  to  McDowell  that  he  had 
failed  and  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
not  to  reenlist  but  to  try  his  fortunes  with 
Mary  Josephine  in  Australia.  Before 
McDowell  received  that  letter,  they  could 
be  on  their  way  into  the  mountains.  The 
"  hunch "  offered  an  opportunity  for  a 
clean  getaway,  and  in  his  jubilation 
Miriam  Kirkstone  and  her  affairs  were 
important  only  as  a  means  to  an  end.  He 


210          THE  RIVER'S  END 

was  John  Keith  now,  fighting  for  John 
Keith's  life — and  Derwent  Conniston's 
sister. 

Mary  Josephine  herself  put  the  first  shot 
into  the  fabric  of  his  plans.  She  must 
have  been  watching  for  him,  for  when 
halfway  up  the  slope  he  saw  her  coming 
to  meet  him.  She  scolded  him  for  being 
away  from  her,  as  he  had  expected  her  to 
do.  Then  she  pulled  his  arm  about  her 
slim  little  waist  and  held  the  hand  thus 
engaged  in  both  her  own  as  they  walked 
up  the  winding  path.  He  noticed  the  little 
wrinkles  in  her  adorable  forehead. 

"  Derry,  is  it  the  right  thing  for  young 
ladies  to  call  on  their  gentlemen  friends 
over  here?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

"  Why — er — that  depends,  Mary  Jose 
phine.  You  mean " 

"Yes,  I  do,  Derwent  Conniston!  She's 
pretty,  and  I  don't  blame  you,  but  I  can't 
help  feeling  that  I  don't  like  it!  " 

His  arm  tightened  about  her  until  she 
gasped.  The  fragile  softness  of  her  waist 
was  a  joy  to  him. 

"Derry!"  she  remonstrated.  "If  you 
do  that  again,  I'll  break!  " 


THE  RIVER'S  END  211 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,"  he  pleaded.  "  I 
couldn't,  dear.  The  way  you  said  it  just 
made  my  arm  close  up  tight.  I'm  glad  you 
didn't  like  it.  I  can  love  only  one  at  a 
time,  and  I'm  loving  you,  and  I'm  going 
on  loving  you  all  my  life." 

"  I  wasn't  jealous,"  she  protested,  blush 
ing.  "  But  she  called  twice  on  the  tele 
phone  and  then  came  up.  And  she's 
pretty." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  Miss  Kirkstone?  " 

"  Yes.  She  was  frightfully  anxious  to 
see  you,  Derry." 

"  And  what  did  you  think  of  her,  dear?  " 

She  cast  a  swift  look  up  into  his  face. 
w  Why,  I  like  her.  She's  sweet  and  pretty, 
and  I  fell  in  love  with  her  hair.  But 
something  was  troubling  her  this  morning. 
I'm  quite  sure  of  it,  though  she  tried  to 
keep  it  back." 

"  She  was  nervous,  you  mean,  and  pale, 
with  sometimes  a  frightened  look  in  her 
eyes.  Was  that  it?  " 

"  You  seem  to  know,  Derry.  I  think  it 
was  all  that." 

He  nodded.  He  saw  his  horizon  aglow 
with  the  smile  of  fortune.  Everything 


212          THE  RIVER'S  END 

was  coming  propitiously  for  him,  even  this 
unexpected  visit  of  Miriam  Kirkstone. 
He  did  not  trouble  himself  to  speculate 
as  to  the  object  of  her  visit,  for  he  was 
grappling  now  with  his  own  opportunity, 
his  chance  to  get  away,  to  win  out  for 
himself  in  one  last  master-stroke,  and  his 
mind  was  concentrated  in  that  direction. 
The  time  was  ripe  to  tell  these  things  to 
Mary  Josephine.  She  must  be  prepared. 

On  the  flat  table  of  the  hill  where  Brady 
had  built  his  bungalow  were  scattered 
clumps  of  golden  birch,  and  in  the  shelter 
of  one  of  the  nearer  clumps  was  a  bench, 
to  which  Keith  drew  Mary  Josephine. 
Thereafter  for  many  minutes  he  spoke 
his  plans.  Mary  Josephine's  cheeks  grew 
flushed.  Her  eyes  shone  with  excitement 
and  eagerness.  She  thrilled  to  the  story 
he  told  her  of  what  they  would  do  in  those 
wonderful  mountains  of  gold  and  mystery, 
just  they  two  alone.  He  made  her  under 
stand  even  more  definitely  that  his  safety 
and  their  mutual  happiness  depended  upon 
the  secrecy  of  their  final  project,  that  in  a 
way  they  were  conspirators  and  must  act 
as  such.  They  might  start  for  the  west 


THE  RIVER'S  END  213 

tonight  or  tomorow,  and  she  must  get 
ready. 

There  he  should  have  stopped.  But 
with  Mary  Josephine's  warm  little  hand 
clinging  to  his  and  her  beautiful  eyes  shin 
ing  at  him  like  liquid  stars,  he  felt  within 
him  an  overwhelming  faith  and  desire,  and 
he  went  on,  making  a  clean  breast  of  the 
situation  that  was  giving  them  the  oppor 
tunity  to  get  away.  He  felt  no  prick  of 
conscience  at  thought  of  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone's  affairs.  Her  destiny  must  be,  as 
he  had  told  McDowell,  largely  a  matter 
of  her  own  choosing.  Besides,  she  had 
McDowell  to  fight  for  her.  And  the  big 
fat  brother,  too.  So  without  fear  of  its 
effect  he  told  Mary  Josephine  of  the  mys 
terious  liaison  between  Miriam  Kirkstone 
and  Shan  Tung,  of  McDowell's  suspicions, 
of  his  own  beliefs,  and  how  it  was  all 
working  out  for  their  own  good. 

Not  until  then  did  he  begin  to  see  the 
changing  lights  in  her  eyes.  Not  until  he 
had  finished  did  he  notice  that  most  of  that 
vivid  flush  of  joy  had  gone  from  her  face 
and  that  she  was  looking  at  him  in  a 
strained,  tense  way.  He  felt  then  the  re- 


214          THE  RIVER'S  END 

action.  She  was  not  looking  at  the  thing 
as  he  was  looking  at  it.  He  had  offered 
to  her  another  woman's  tragedy  as  their 
opportunity,  and  her  own  woman's  heart 
had  responded  in  the  way  that  has  been 
woman's  since  the  dawn  of  life.  A  sense 
of  shame  which  he  fought  and  tried  to 
crush  took  possession  of  him.  He  was 
right.  He  must  be  right,  for  it  was  his 
life  that  was  hanging  in  the  balance.  Yet 
Mary  Josephine  could  not  know  that. 

Her  fingers  had  tightened  about  his,  and 
she  was  looking  away  from  him.  He  saw 
now  that  the  color  had  almost  gone  from 
her  face.  There  was  the  flash  of  a  new 
fire  in  her  eyes. 

"  And  that  was  why  she  was  nervous 
and  pale,  with  sometimes  a  frightened  look 
in  her  eyes,"  she  spoke  softly,  repeating  his 
words.  "  It  was  because  of  this  Chinese 
monster,  Shan  Tung — because  he  has  some 
sort  of  power  over  her,  you  say — be 
cause " 

She  snatched  her  hand  from  his  with  a 
suddenness  that  startled  him.  Her  eyes,  so 
beautiful  and  soft  a  few  minutes  before, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  215 

scintillated  fire.  "  Derry,  if  you  don't  fix 
this  heathen  devil — /  will!  " 

She  stood  up  before  him,  breathing 
quickly,  and  he  beheld  in  her  not  the  soft, 
slim-waisted  little  goddess  of  half  an  hour 
ago,  but  the  fiercest  fighter  of  all  the  fight 
ing  ages,  a  woman  roused.  And  no  longer 
fear,  but  a  glory  swept  over  him.  She  was 
Conniston's  sister,  and  she  WAS  Conniston. 
Even  as  he  saw  his  plans  falling  about  him, 
he  opened  his  arms  and  held  them  out  to 
her,  and  with  the  swiftness  of  love  she  ran 
into  them,  putting  her  hands  to  his  face 
while  he  held  her  close  and  kissed  her  lips. 

"  You  bet  we'll  fix  that  heathen  devil 
before  we  go,"  he  said.  "  You  bet  we  will 
— sweetheart.' " 


XVIII 

WALLIE,  suffering  the  outrage  of  one 
who  sees  his  dinner  growing  cold, 
found  Keith  and  Mary  Josephine  in  the 
edge  of  the  golden  birch  and  implored 
them  to  come  and  eat.  It  was  a  marvel  of 
a  dinner.  Over  Mary  Josephine's  coffee 
and  Keith's  cigar  they  discussed  their  final 
plans.  Keith  made  the  big  promise  that  he 
would  "  fix  Shan  Tung  "  in  a  hurry,  per 
haps  that  very  afternoon.  In  the  glow  of 
Mary  Josephine's  proud  eyes  he  felt  no 
task  too  large  for  him,  and  he  was  eager 
to  be  at  it.  But  when  his  cigar  was  half 
done,  Mary  Josephine  came  around  and 
perched  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
and  began  running  her  fingers  through  his 
hair.  All  desire  to  go  after  Shan  Tung 
left  him.  He  would  have  remained  there 
forever.  Twice  she  bent  down  and 
touched  his  forehead  lightly  with  her  lips. 
Again  his  arm  was  round  her  soft  little 

waist,  and  his  heart  was  pumping  like  a 
216 


THE  RIVER'S  END  217 

thing  overworked.  It  was  Mary  Josephine, 
finally,  who  sent  him  on  his  mission,  but 
not  before  she  stood  on  tiptoe,  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders,  giving  him  her  mouth  to 
kiss. 

An  army  at  his  back  could  not  have 
strengthened  Keith  with  a  vaster  deter 
mination  than  that  kiss.  There  would  be 
no  more  quibbling.  His  mind  was  made 
up  definitely  on  the  point.  And  his  first 
move  was  to  head  straight  for  the  Kirk- 
stone  house  on  the  hill. 

He  did  not  get  as  far  as  the  door  this 
time.  He  caught  a  vision  of  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone  in  the  shrubbery,  bareheaded,  her 
hair  glowing  radiantly  in  the  sun.  It  oc 
curred  to  him  suddenly  that  it  was  her 
hair  that  roused  the  venom  in  him  when 
he  thought  of  her  as  the  property  of  Shan 
Tung.  If  it  had  been  black  or  even  brown, 
the  thought  might  not  have  emphasized 
itself  so  unpleasantly  in  his  mind.  But 
that  vivid  gold  cried  out  against  the  crime, 
even  against  the  girl  herself.  She  saw  him 
almost  in  the  instant  his  eyes  fell  upon  her, 
and  came  forward  quickly  to  meet  him. 
There  was  an  eagerness  in  her  face  that 


218  THE  RIVER'S  END 

told  him  his  coming  relieved  her  of  a  ter 
rific  suspense. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  at  the  Shack  when 
you  came,  Miss  Kirkstone,"  he  said,  taking 
for  a  moment  the  hand  she  offered  him. 
"  I  fancy  you  were  up  there  to  see  me 
about  Shan  Tung." 

He  sent  the  shot  bluntly,  straight  home. 
In  the  tone  of  his  voice  there  was  no 
apology.  He  saw  her  grow  cold,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  him  staringly,  as  though  she  not 
only  heard  his  words  but  saw  what  was  in 
his  mind. 

"  Wasn't  that  it,  Miss  Kirkstone?  " 

She  nodded  affirmatively,  but  her  lips 
did  not  move. 

"Shan  Tung,"  he  repeated.  "Miss 
Kirkstone,  what  is  the  trouble?  Why  don't 
you  confide  in  someone,  in  McDowell,  in 
me,  in " 

He  was  going  to  say  "  your  brother,"  but 
the  suddenness  with  which  she  caught  his 
arm  cut  the  words  short. 

"  Shan  Tung  has  been  to  see  him — 
McDowell?"  she  questioned  excitedly. 
"  He  has  been  there  today?  And  he 
told  him "  She  stopped,  breathing 


THE  RIVER'S  END  219 

quickly,  her  fingers  tightening  on  his  arm. 

"  I  don't  know  what  passed  between 
them,"  said  Keith.  "  But  McDowell  was 
tremendously  worked  up  about  you.  So 
am  I.  We  might  as  well  be  frank,  Miss 
Kirkstone.  There's  something  rotten  in 
Denmark  when  two  people  like  you  and 
Shan  Tung  mix  up.  And  you  are  mixed; 
you  can't  deny  it.  You  have  been  to  see 
Shan  Tung  late  at  night.  He  was  in  the 
house  with  you  the  first  night  I  saw  you. 
More  than  that — he  is  in  your  house 
n  owl" 

She  shrank  back  as  if  he  had  struck  at 
her.  "  No,  no,  no,"  she  cried.  "  He  isn't 
there.  I  tell  you,  he  isn't!  " 

"  How  am  I  to  believe  you?  "  demanded 
Keith.  "You  have  not  told  the  truth  to 
McDowell.  You  are  righting  to  cover  up 
the  truth.  And  we  know  it  is  because  of 
Shan  Tung.  Why?  I  am  here  to  fight  for 
you,  to  help  you.  And  McDowell,  too. 
That  is  why  we  must  know.  Miss  Kirk- 
stone,  do  you  love  the  Chinaman?  " 

He  knew  the  words  were  an  insult.  He 
had  guessed  their  effect.  As  if  struck  there 
suddenly  by  a  painter's  brush,  two  vivid 


220          THE  RIVER'S  END 

spots  appeared  in  the  girl's  pale  cheeks. 
She  shrank  back  from  him  another  step. 
Her  eyes  blazed.  Slowly,  without  turning 
their  flame  from  his  face,  she  pointed  to 
the  edge  of  the  shrubbery  a  few  feet  from 
where  they  were  standing*  He  looked. 
Twisted  and  partly  coiled  on  the  mold, 
where  it  had  been  clubbed  to  death,  was  a 
little  green  grass  snake. 

"  I  hate  him — like  that!  "  she  said. 

His  eyes  came  back  to  her.  "  Then  for 
some  reason  known  only  to  you  and  Shan 
Tung  you  have  sold  or  are  intending  to 
sell  yourself  to  him!  " 

It  was  not  a  question.  It  was  an  accusa 
tion.  He  saw  the  flush  of  anger  fading 
out  of  her  cheeks.  Her  body  relaxed,  her 
head  dropped,  and  slowly  she  nodded  in 
confirmation. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  sell  myself  to  him." 

The  astounding  confession  held  him 
mute  for  a  space.  In  the  interval  it  was 
the  girl  who  became  self-possessed.  What 
she  said  next  amazed  him  still  more. 

"  I  have  confessed  so  much  because  I 
am  positive  that  you  will  not  betray  me. 
And  I  went  up  to  the  Shack  to  find  you, 


THE  RIVER'S  £ND          221 

because  I  want  you  to  help  me  find  a 
story  to  tell  McDowell.  You  said  you 
would  help  me.  Will  you?  " 

He  still  did  not  speak,  and  she  went  on. 

"  I  am  accepting  that  promise  as 
granted,  too.  McDowell  mistrusts,  but  he 
must  not  know.  You  must  help  me  there. 
You  must  help  me  for  two  or  three  weeks. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  something  may 
happen.  He  must  be  made  to  have  faith  in 
me  again.  Do  you  understand?  " 

"  Partly,"  said  Keith.  "  You  ask  me  to 
do  this  blindly,  without  knowing  why  I 
am  doing  it,  without  any  explanation  what 
ever  on  your  part  except  that  for  some 
unknown  and  mysterious  price  you  are 
going  to  sell  yourself  to  Shan  Tung.  You 
want  me  to  cover  and  abet  this  monstrous 
deal  by  hoodwinking  the  man  whose  sus 
picions  threaten  its  consummation.  If 
there  was  not  in  my  own  mind  a  sus 
picion  that  you  are  insane,  I  should  say 
your  proposition  is  as  ludicrous  as  it  is  im 
possible.  Having  that  suspicion,  it  is  a 
bit  tragic.  Also  it  is  impossible.  It  is 
necessary  for  you  first  to  tell  me  why  you 
are  going  to  sell  yourself  to  Shan  Tung."  / 


222          THE  RIVER'S  END 

Her  face  was  coldly  white  and  calm 
again.  But  her  hands  trembled.  He  saw 
her  try  to  hide  them,  and  pitied  her. 

"  Then  I  won't  trouble  you  any  more, 
for  that,  too,  is  impossible,"  she  said. 
"  May  I  trust  you  to  keep  in  confidence 
what  I  have  told  you?  Perhaps  I  have 
had  too  much  faith  in  you  for  a  reason 
which  has  no  reason,  because  you  were 
with  John  Keith.  John  Keith  was  the  one 
other  man  who  might  have  helped  me." 

"And  why  John  Keith?  How  could  he 
have  helped  you?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  If  I  told  you 
that,  I  should  be  answering  the  question 
which  is  impossible." 

He  saw  himself  facing  a  checkmate.  To 
plead,  to  argue  with  her,  he  knew  would 
profit  him  nothing.  A  new  thought  came 
to  him,  swift  and  imperative.  The  end 
would  justify  the  means.  He  clenched  his 
hands.  He  forced  into  his  face  a  look  that 
was  black  and  vengeful.  And  he  turned 
it  on  her. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  cried.  "  You  are 
playing  a  game,  and  so  am  I.  Possibly  we 
are  selfish,  both  of  us,  looking  each  to  his 


THE  RIVER'S  END  223 

own  interests  with  no  thought  of  the  other. 
[Will  you  help  me,  if  I  help  you?  " 

Again  he  pitied  her  as  he  saw  with  what 
eager  swiftness  she  caught  at  his  bait. 

"  Yes,"  she  nodded,  catching  her  breath. 
"  Yes,  I  will  help  you." 

His  face  grew  blacker.  He  raised  his 
clenched  hands  so  she  could  see  them,  and 
advanced  a  step  toward  her. 

"  Then  tell  me  this — would  you  care  if 
something  happened  to  Shan  Tung? 
Would  you  care  if  he  died,  if  he  was 
killed,  if- 

Her  breath  was  coming  faster  and  faster. 
Again  the  red  spots  blazed  in  her  cheeks. 

"  Would  you  care?  "  he  demanded. 

"No — no — I  wouldn't  care.  He  de 
serves  to  die." 

"  Then  tell  me  where  Shan  Tung  is. 
For  my  game  is  with  him.  And  I  believe 
it  is  a  bigger  game  than  your  game,  for  it 
is  a  game  of  life  and  death.  That  is  why 
I  am  interested  in  your  affair.  It  is  be 
cause  I  am  selfish,  because  I  have  my  own 
score  to  settle,  and  because  you  can  help 
me.  I  shall  ask  you  no  more  questions 
about  yourself.  And  I  shall  keep  your 


224          THE  RIVER'S  END 

secret  and  help  you  with  McDowell  if  you 
will  keep  mine  and  help  me.  First,  where 
is  Shan  Tung?  " 

She  hesitated  for  barely  an  instant.  "  He 
has  gone  out  of  town.  He  will  be  away 
for  ten  days." 

"But  he  bought  no  ticket;  no  one  saw 
him  leave  by  train." 

"  No,  he  walked  up  the  river.  An  auto 
was  waiting  for  him.  He  will  pass 
through  tonight  on  the  eastbound  train  on 
his  way  to  Winnipeg." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  why  he  is  going  to 
Winnipeg?  " 

"  No,  I  cannot." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  It  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  ask.  I  can  guess.  It 
is  to  see  your  brother." 

Again  he  knew  he  had  struck  home. 
And  yet  she  said, 

"  No,  it  is  not  to  see  my  brother." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  "  Miss 
Kirkstone,  I  am  going  to  keep  my  promise. 
I  am  going  to  help  you  with  McDowell. 
Of  course  I  demand  my  price.  Will  you 
swear  on  your  word  of  honor  to  let  me 
know  the  moment  Shan  Tung  returns?  " 


THE  RIVER'S  END  225 

"  I  will  let  you  know." 

Their  hands  clasped.  Looking  into  her 
eyes,  Keith  saw  what  told  him  his  was  not 
the  greatest  cross  to  bear.  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone  also  was  fighting  for  her  life,  and  as 
he  turned  to  leave  her,  he  said : 

"  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope.  In 
settling  my  score  with  Shan  Tung  I  believe 
that  I  shall  also  settle  yours.  It  is  a 
strong  hunch,  Miss  Kirkstone,  and  it's 
holding  me  tight.  Ten  days,  Shan  Tung, 
and  then " 

He  left  her,  smiling.  Miriam  Kirkstone 
watched  him  go,  her  slim  hands  clutched 
at  her  breast,  her  eyes  aglow  with  a  new 
thought,  a  new  hope;  and  as  he  heard  the 
gate  slam  behind  him,  a  sobbing  cry  rose  in 
her  throat,  and  she  reached  out  her  hands 
as  if  to  call  him  back,  for  something  was 
telling  her  that  through  this  man  lay  the 
way  to  her  salvation. 

And  her  lips  were  moaning  softly,  "  Ten 
days — ten  days — and  then — what?  " 


XIX 

IN  those  ten  days  all  the  wonders  of 
June  came  up  out  of  the  south.  Life 
pulsed  with  a  new  and  vibrant  force.  The 
crimson  fire-flowers,  first  of  wild  blooms  to 
come  after  snow  and  frost,  splashed  the 
green  spaces  with  red.  The  forests  took 
on  new  colors,  the  blue  of  the  sky  grew 
nearer,  and  in  men's  veins  the  blood  ran 
with  new  vigor  and  anticipations.  To 
Keith  they  were  all  this  and  more.  Four 
years  along  the  rim  of  the  Arctic  had 
made  it  possible  for  him  to  drink  to  the 
full  the  glory  of  early  summer  along  the 
Saskatchewan.  And  to  Mary  Josephine  it 
was  all  new.  Never  had  she  seen  a  sum 
mer  like  this  that  was  dawning,  that  most 
wonderful  of  all  the  summers  in  the  world, 
which  comes  in  June  along  the  southern 
edge  of  the  Northland. 

Keith    had    played    his    promised    part. 

It  was  not  difficult  for  him  to  wipe  away 
226 


THE  RIVER'S  END  227 

the  worst  of  McDowell's  suspicions  re 
garding  Miss  Kirkstone,  for  McDowell 
was  eager  to  believe.  When  Keith  told 
him  that  Miriam  was  on  the  verge  of  a 
nervous  breakdown  simply  because  of  cer 
tain  trouble  into  which  Shan  Tung  had 
inveigled  her  brother,  and  that  everything 
would  be  straightened  out  the  moment 
Shan  Tung  returned  from  Winnipeg,  the 
iron  man  seized  his  hands  in  a  sudden 
burst  of  relief  and  gratitude. 

"  But  why  didn't  she  confide  in  me, 
Conniston?  "  he  complained.  "  Why  didn't 
she  confide  in  me?"  The  anxiety  in  his 
voice,  its  note  of  disappointment,  were 
ahnost  boyish. 

Keith  was  prepared.  "  Because— 
He  hesitated,  as  if  projecting  the  thing 
in  his  mind.  "  McDowell,  I'm  in  a  deli 
cate  position.  You  must  understand  with 
out  forcing  me  to  say  too  much.  You  are 
the  last  man  in  the  world  Miss  Kirkstone 
wants  to  know  about  her  trouble  until  she 
has  triumphed,  and  it  is  over.  Delicacy, 
perhaps;  a  woman's  desire  to  keep  some 
thing  she  is  ashamed  of  from  the  one  man 
she  looks  up  to  above  all  other  men — to 


228          THE  RIVER'S  END 

fceep  it  away  from  him  until  she  has 
cleared  herself  so  that  there  is  no  suspicion. 
McDowell,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  be  proud  of 
her  for  that." 

McDowell  turned  away,  and  for  a  space 
Keith  saw  the  muscles  in  the  back  of  his 
neck  twitching. 

"  Derwent,  maybe  you've  guessed,  may 
be  you  understand,"  he  said  after  a  moment 
with  his  face  still  turned  to  the  window. 
'Of  course  she  will  never  know.  I'm  too 
old,  old  enough  to  be  her  father.  But 
I've  got  the  right  to  watch  over  her,  and 
if  any  man  ever  injures  her " 

His  fists  grew  knotted,  and  softly  Keith 
said  behind  him : 

"You'd  possibly  do  what  John  Keith 
did  to  the  man  who  wronged  his  father. 
And  because  the  Law  is  not  always  omni 
scient,  it  is  also  possible  that  Shan  Tung 
may  have  to  answer  in  some  such  way. 
Until  then,  until  she  comes  to  you  of  her 
own  free  will  and  with  gladness  in  her  eyes 
tells  you  her  own  secret  and  why  she  kept 
it  from  you — until  she  does  that,  I  say, 
it  is  your  part  to  treat  her  as  if  you  had 
seen  nothing,  guessed  nothing,  suspected 


THE  RIVER'S  END  229 

nothing.  Do  that,  McDowell,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  me." 

He  went  out,  leaving  the  iron  man  still 
with  his  face  to  the  window. 

With  Mary  Josephine  there  was  no 
subterfuge.  His  mind  was  still  centered 
in  his  own  happiness.  He  could  not  wipe 
out  of  his  brain  the  conviction  that  if  he 
waited  for  Shan  Tung  he  was  waiting  just 
so  long  under  the  sword  of  Damocles, 
with  a  hair  between  him  and  doom.  He 
hoped  that  Miriam  Kirkstone's  refusal 
to  confide  in  him  and  her  reluctance  to 
furnish  him  with  the  smallest  facts  in  the 
matter  would  turn  Mary  Josephine's  sym 
pathy  into  a  feeling  of  indifference  if  not 
of  actual  resentment.  He  was  disap 
pointed.  Mary  Josephine  insisted  on  hav 
ing  Miss  Kirkstone  over  for  dinner  the 
next  day,  and  from  that  hour  something 
grew  between  the  two  girls  which  Keith 
knew  he  was  powerless  to  overcome. 
Thereafter  he  bowed  his  head  to  fate. 
He  must  wait  for  Shan  Tung. 

"  If  it  wasn't  for  your  promise  not  to 
fall  in  love,  Fd  be  afraid,"  Mary  Jose 
phine  confided  to  him  that  night,  perched 


23o          THE  RIVER'S  END 

on  the  arm  of  his  big  chair.  "  At  times  I 
was  afraid  today,  Derry.  She's  lovely. 
And  you  like  pretty  hair — and  hers — is 
wonderful!  " 

"  I  don't  remember,"  said  Keith  quietly, 
"  that  I  promised  you  I  wouldn't  fall  in 
love.  I'm  desperately  in  love,  and  with 
you,  Mary  Josephine.  And  as  for  Miss 
Kirkstone's  lovely  hair — I  wouldn't  trade 
one  of  yours  for  all  she  has  on  her  head." 

At  that,  with  a  riotous  little  laugh  of 
joy,  Mary  Josephine  swiftly  unbound  her 
hair  and  let  it  smother  about  his  face  and 
shoulders.  "  Sometimes  I  have  a  terribly 
funny  thought,  Derry,"  she  whispered. 
"  If  we  hadn't  always  been  sweethearts, 
back  there  at  home,  and  if  you  hadn't 
always  liked  my  hair,  and  kissed  me,  and 
told  me  I  was  pretty,  I'd  almost  think  you 
weren't  my  brother  1" 

Keith  laughed  and  was  glad  that  her 
hair  covered  his  face. 

(During  those  wonderful  first  days  of  the 
summer  they  were  inseparable,  except 
when  matters  of  business  took  Keith  away. 
During  these  times  he  prepared  for  even 
tualities.  The  Keith  properties  in  Prince 


THE  RIVER'S  END  231 

Albert,  he  estimated,  were  worth  at  least 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  he  learned 
from  McDowell  that  they  would  soon  go 
through  a  process  of  law  before  being 
turned  over  to  his  fortunate  inheritors. 
Before  that  time,  however,  he  knew  that 
his  own  fate  would  be  sealed  one  way  or 
the  other,  and  now  that  he  had  Mary 
Josephine  to  look  after,  he  made  a  will, 
leaving  everything  to  her,  and  signing  him 
self  John  Keith.  This  will  he  carried  in 
an  envelope  pinned  inside  his  shirt.  As 
Derwent  Conniston  he  collected  one  thou 
sand  two  hundred  and  sixty  dollars  for 
three  and  a  half  years  back  wage  in  the 
Service.  Two  hundred  and  sixty  of  this  he 
kept  in  his  own  pocket.  The  remaining 
thousand  he  counted  out  in  new  hundred- 
dollar  bills  under  Mary  Josephine's  eyes, 
sealed  the  bills  in  another  envelope,  and 
gave  the  envelope  to  her. 

"  It's  safer  with  you  than  with  me,"  he 
excused  himself.  "  Fasten  it  inside  your 
dress.  It's  our  grub-stake  into  the  moun 
tains." 

Mary  Josephine  accepted  the  treasure 
with  the  repressed  delight  of  one  upon 


232          THE  RIVER'S  END 

whose  fair  shoulders  had  been  placed  a 
tremendous  responsibility. 

There  were  days  of  both  joy  and  pain  for 
Keith.  For  even  in  the  fullest  hours  of 
his  happiness  there  was  a  thing  eating  at 
his  heart,  a  thing  that  was  eating  deeper 
and  deeper  until  at  times  it  was  like  a 
destroying  flame  within  him.  One  night 
he  dreamed;  he  dreamed  that  Conniston 
came  to  his  bedside  and  wakened  him,  and 
that  after  wakening  him  he  taunted  him 
in  ghoulish  glee  and  told  him  that  in  be 
queathing  him  a  sister  he  had  given  unto 
him  forever  and  forever  the  curse  of  the 
daughters  of  Achelous.  And  Keith,  wak 
ing  in  the  dark  hour  of  night,  knew  in  his 
despair  that  it  was  so.  For  all  time,  even 
though  he  won  this  fight  he  was  fighting, 
Mary  Josephine  would  be  the  unattainable. 
A  sister — and  he  loved  her  with  the  love 
of  a  man! 

It  was  the  next  day  after  the  dream 
that  they  wandered  again  into  the  grove 
that  sheltered  Keith's  old  home,  and  again 
they  entered  it  and  went  through  the  cold 
and  empty  rooms.  In  one  of  these  rooms 
he  sought  among  the  titles  of  dusty  rows 


THE  RIVER'S  END  233 

of  books  until  he  came  to  one  and  opened 
it.  And  there  he  found  what  had  been 
in  the  corner  of  his  mind  when  the  sun 
rose  to  give  him  courage  after  the  night  of 
his  dream.  The  daughters  of  Achelous 
had  lost  in  the  end.  Ulysses  had  tricked 
them.  Ulysses  had  won.  And  in  this  day 
and  age  it  was  up  to  him,  John  Keith,  to 
win,  and  win  he  would ! 

Always  he  felt  this  mastering  certainty 
of  the  future  when  alone  with  Mary 
Josephine  in  the  open  day.  With  her  at 
his  side,  her  hand  in  his,  and  his  arm  about 
her  waist,  he  told  himself  that  all  life  was 
a  lie — that  there  was  no  earth,  no  sun,  no 
song  or  gladness  in  all  the  world,  if  that 
world  held  no  hope  for  him.  It  was  there. 
It  was  beyond  the  rim  of  forest.  It  was 
beyond  the  yellow  plains,  beyond  the  far 
thest  timber  of  the  farthest  prairie,  be 
yond  the  foothills;  in  the  heart  of  the 
mountains  was  its  abiding  place.  As  he 
had  dreamed  of  those  mountains  in  boy 
hood  and  youth,  so  now  he  dreamed  his 
dreams  over  again  with  Mary  Josephine. 
For  her  he  painted  his  pictures  of  them, 
as  they  wandered  mile  after  mile  up  the 


234          THE  RIVER'S  END 

shore  of  the  Saskatchewan — the  little  world 
they  would  make  all  for  themselves,  how 
they  would  live,  what  they  would  do,  the 
mysteries  they  would  seek  out,  the  triumphs 
they  would  achieve,  the  glory  of  that  world 
— just  for  two.  And  Mary  Josephine 
planned  and  dreamed  with  him. 

In  a  week  they  lived  what  might  have 
been  encompassed  in  a  year.  So  it  seemed 
to  Keith,  who  had  known  her  only  so  long. 
,With  Mary  Josephine  the  view-point  was 
different.  There  had  been  a  long  separa 
tion,  a  separation  filled  with  a  heartbreak 
which  she  would  never  forget,  but  it  had 
not  served  to  weaken  the  bonds  between 
her  and  this  loved  one,  who,  she  thought, 
had  always  been  her  own.  To  her  their 
comradeship  was  more  complete  now  than 
it  ever  had  been,  even  back  in  the  old 
days,  for  they  were  alone  in  a  land  that 
was  strange  to  her,  and  one  was  all  that  the 
world  held  for  the  other.  So  her  posses- 
sorship  of  Keith  was  a  thing  which — again 
in  the  dark  and  brooding  hours  of  night — 
sometimes  made  him  writhe  in  an  agony  of 
shame.  Hers  was  a  shameless  love,  a  love 
which  had  not  even  the  lover's  reason  for 


THE  RIVER'S  END  235 

embarrassment,  a  love  unreserved  and  open 
as  the  day.  It  was  her  trick,  nights,  to 
nestle  herself  in  the  big  armchair  with 
him,  and  it  was  her  fun  to  smother  his 
face  in  her  hair  and  tumble  it  about  him, 
piling  it  over  his  mouth  and  nose  until  she 
made  him  plead  for  air.  Again  she  would 
fit  herself  comfortably  in  the  hollow  of  his 
arm  and  sit  the  evening  out  with  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  while  they  planned  their 
future,  and  twice  in  that  week  she  fell 
asleep  there.  Each  morning  she  greeted 
him  with  a  kiss,  and  each  night  she  came 
to  him  to  be  kissed,  and  when  it  was  her 
pleasure  she  kissed  him — or  made  him  kiss 
her — when  they  were  on  their  long  walks. 
It  was  bitter-sweet  to  Keith,  and  more  fre 
quently  came  the  hours  of  crushing  deso 
lation  for  him,  those  hours  in  the  still, 
dark  night  when  his  hypocrisy  and  his 
crime  stood  out  stark  and  hideous  in  his 
troubled  brain. 

As  this  thing  grew  in  him,  a  black  and 
foreboding  thunderstorm  on  the  horizon 
of  his  dreams,  an  impulse  which  he  did 
not  resist  dragged  him  more  and  more  fre 
quently  down  to  the  old  home,  and  Mary 


'236          THE  RIVER'S  END 

Josephine  was  always  with  him.  They  let 
no  one  know  of  these  visits.  And  they 
talked  about  John  Keith,  and  in  Mary 
Josephine's  eyes  he  saw  more  than  once 
a  soft  and  starry  glow  of  understanding. 
She  loved  the  memory  of  this  man  because 
he,  her  brother,  had  loved  him.  And  after 
these  hours  came  the  nights  when  truth, 
smiling  at  him,  flung  aside  its  mask  and 
stood  a  grinning  specter,  and  he  measured 
to  the  depths  the  falseness  of  his  triumph. 
His  comfort  was  the  thought  that  she  knew. 
Whatever  happened,  she  would  know  what 
John  Keith  had  been.  For  he,  John  Keith, 
had  told  her.  So  much  of  the  truth  had 
he  lived. 

He  fought  against  the  new  strain  that 
was  descending  upon  him  slowly  and  stead 
ily  as  the  days  passed.  He  could  not  but 
see  the  new  light  that  had  grown  in  Mir 
iam  Kirkstone's  eyes.  At  times  it  was  more 
than  a  dawn  of  hope.  It  was  almost  cer 
tainty.  She  had  faith  in  him,  faith  in  his 
promise  to  her,  in  his  power  to  fight,  his 
strength  to  win.  Her  growing  friendship 
with  Mary  Josephine  accentuated  this,  in- 
ipiring  her  at  times  almost  to  a  point  of 


THE  RIVER'S  END  237 

conviction,  for  Mary  Josephine's  confi 
dence  in  him  was  a  passion.  Even  Mc 
Dowell,  primarily  a  fighter  of  his  own 
battles,  cautious  and  suspicious,  had  faith 
in  him  while  he  waited  for  Shan  Tung. 
It  was  this  blind  belief  in  him  that  de 
pressed  him  more  than  all  else,  for  he 
knew  that  victory  for  himself  must  be 
based  more  or  less  on  deceit  and  treachery. 
For  the  first  time  he  heard  Miriam  laugh 
with  Mary  Josephine;  he  saw  the  gold  and 
the  brown  head  together  out  in  the  sun; 
he  saw  her  face  shining  with  a  light  that 
he  had  never  seen  there  before,  and  then, 
when  he  came  upon  them,  their  faces  were 
turned  to  him,  and  his  heart  bled  even  as 
he  smiled  and  held  out  his  hands  to  Mary 
Josephine.  They  trusted  him,  and  he  was 
a  liar,  a  hypocrite,  a  Pharisee. 

On  the  ninth  day  he  had  finished  supper 
with  Mary  Josephine  when  the  telephone 
rang.  He  rose  to  answer  it.  It  was 
Miriam  Kirkstone. 

"  He  has  returned,"  she  said. 

That  was  all.  The  words  were  in  a 
choking  voice.  He  answered  and  hung  up 
the  receiver.  He  knew  a  change  had  come 


238  THE  RIVER'S  END 

into  his  face  when  he  turned  to  Mary 
Josephine.  He  steeled  himself  to  a  com 
posure  that  drew  a  questioning  tenseness 
into  her  face.  Gently  he  stroked  her  soft 
hair,  explaining  that  Shan  Tung  had  re 
turned  and  that  he  was  going  to  see  him. 
In  his  bedroom  he  strapped  his  Service 
automatic  under  his  coat. 

At  the  door,  ready  to  go,  he  paused. 
Mary  Josephine  came  to  him  and  put  her 
hands  to  his  shoulders.  A  strange  unrest 
was  in  her  eyes,  a  question  which  she  did 
not  ask. 

Something  whispered  to  him  that  it  was 
the  last  time.  Whatever  happened  now, 
tonight  must  leave  him  clean.  His  arms 
went  around  her,  he  drew  her  close  against 
his  breast,  and  for  a  space  he  held  her 
there,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  love  me?  "  he  asked  softly. 

"  More  than  anything  else  in  the  world," 
she  whispered. 

"  Kiss  me,  Mary  Josephine." 

Her  lips  pressed  to  his. 

He  released  her  from  his  arms,  slowly, 
lingeringly. 

After  that  she  stood  in  the  lighted  door- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  239 

way,  watching  him,  until  he  disappeared  in 
the  gloom  of  the  slope.  She  called  good- 
by,  and  he  answered  her.  The  door  closed. 
And  he  went  down  into  the  valley,  a  hand 
of  foreboding  gripping  at  his  heart. 


XX 

WfTH  a  face  out  of  which  all  color 
had  fled,  and  eyes  filled  with  the 
ghosts  of  a  new  horror,  Miriam  Kirkstone 
stood  before  Keith  in  the  big  room  in  the 
house  on  the  hill. 

"  He  was  here — ten  minutes,"  she  said, 
and  her  voice  was  as  if  she  was  forcing  it 
out  of  a  part  of  her  that  was  dead  and 
cold.  It  was  lifeless,  emotionless,  a  living 
voice  and  yet  strange  with  the  chill  of 
death.  "  In  those  ten  minutes  he  told  me 
• — that  I  If  you  fail- 
It  was  her  throat  that  held  him,  fas 
cinated  him.  White,  slim,  beautiful — her 
heart  seemed  pulsing  there.  And  he  could 
see  that  heart  choke  back  the  words  she 
was  about  to  speak. 

"  If  I  fail—  '  he  repeated  the  words 
slowly  after  her,  watching  that  white,  beat 
ing  throat. 

"  There  is  only  the  one  thing  left  for  me 

to  do.    You — you — understand?" 
240 


THE  RIVER'S  END  241 

"  Yes,  I  understand.  Therefore  I  shall 
not  fail." 

He  backed  away  from  her  toward  the 
door,  and  still  he  could  not  take  his  eyes 
from  the  white  throat  with  its  beating 
heart.  "  I  shall  not  fail,"  he  repeated. 
"  And  when  the  telephone  rings,  you  will 
be  here — to  answer?  " 

"  Yes,  here,"  she  replied  huskily. 

He  went  out.  Under  his  feet  the 
gravelly  path  ran  through  a  flood  of  moon 
light.  Over  him  the  sky  was  agleam  with 
stars.  It  was  a  white  night,  one  of  those 
wonderful  gold-white  nights  in  the  land  of 
the  Saskatchewan.  Under  that  sky  the 
world  was  alive.  The  little  city  lay  in  a 
golden  glimmer  of  lights.  Out  of  it  rose 
a  murmur,  a  rippling  stream  of  sound, 
the  voice  of  its  life,  softened  by  the  little 
valley  between.  Into  it  Keith  descended. 
He  passed  men  and  women,  laughing,  talk* 
ing,  gay.  He  heard  music.  The  main 
street  was  a  moving  throng.  On  a  corner 
the  Salvation  Army,  a  young  woman,  a 
young  man,  a  crippled  boy,  two  young 
girls,  and  an  old  man,  were  singing 
*  Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee."  Opposite 


242          THE  RIVER'S  END 

the  Board  of  Trade  building  on  the  edge 
of  the  river  a  street  medicine-fakir  had 
drawn  a  crowd  to  his  wagon.  To  the  beat 
of  the  Salvation  Army's  tambourine  rose 
the  thrum  of  a  made-up  negro's  banjo. 

Through  these  things  Keith  passed,  his 
eyes  open,  his  ears  listening,  but  he  passed 
swiftly.  What  he  saw  and  what  he  heard 
pressed  upon  him  with  the  chilling  thrill 
of  that  last  swan-song,  the  swan-song  of 
Ecla,  of  Kobat,  of  Ty,  who  had  heard 
their  doom  chanted  from  the  mountain- 
tops.  It  was  the  city  rising  up  about  his 
ears  in  rejoicing  and  triumph.  And  it 
put  in  his  heart  a  cold,  impassive  anger. 
He  sensed  an  impending  doom,  and  yet  he 
was  not  afraid.  He  was  no  longer  chained 
by  dreams,  no  more  restrained  by  self. 
Before  his  eyes,  beating,  beating,  beating, 
he  saw  that  tremulous  heart  in  Miriam 
Kirkstone's  soft,  white  throat. 

He  came  to  Shan  Tung's.  Beyond  the 
softly  curtained  windows  it  was  a  yellow 
glare  of  light.  He  entered  and  met  the 
flow  of  life,  the  murmur  of  voices  and 
laughter,  the  tinkle  of  glasses,  the  scent 
of  cigarette  smoke,  and  the  fainter  perfurae 


THE  RIVER'S  END  243 

of  incense.  And  where  he  had  seen  him 
last,  as  though  he  had  not  moved  since  that 
hour  nine  days  ago,  still  with  his  ciga 
rette,  still  sphinx-like,  narrow-eyed,  watch 
ful,  stood  Li  King. 

Keith  walked  straight  to  him.  And  this 
time,  as  he  approached,  Li  King  greeted 
him  with  a  quick  and  subtle  smile.  He 
flipped  his  cigarette  to  the  tiled  floor.  He 
was  bowing,  gracious.  Tonight  he  was  not 
stupid. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  Shan  Tung,"  said 
Keith. 

He  had  half  expected  to  be  refused,  in 
which  event  he  was  prepared  to  use  his 
prerogative  as  an  officer  of  the  law  to  gain 
his  point.  But  Li  King  did  not  hesitate. 
He  was  almost  eager.  And  Keith  knew 
that  Shan  Tung  was  expecting  him. 

They  passed  behind  one  of  the  screens 
and  then  behind  another,  until  it  seemed  to 
Keith  their  way  was  a  sinuous  twisting 
among  screens.  They  paused  before  a 
panel  in  the  wall,  and  Li  King  pressed  the 
black  throat  of  a  long-legged,  swan-necked 
bird  with  huge  wings  and  the  panel  opened 
and  swung  toward  them.  It  was  dark  in- 


244          THE  RIVER'S  END 

side,  but  Li  King  turned  on  a  light, 
through  a  narrow  hallway  ten  feet  in 
length  he  led  the  way,  unlocked  a  second 
door,  and  held  it  open,  smiling  at  Keith. 

"  Up  there,"  he  said. 

A  flight  of  steps  led  upward  and  as 
Keith  began  to  mount  them  the  door  closed 
softly  behind  him.  Li  King  accompanied 
him  no  further. 

He  mounted  the  steps,  treading  softly. 
At  the  top  was  another  door,  and  this  he 
opened  as  quietly  as  Li  King  had  closed 
the  one  below  him.  Again  the  omnipresent 
screens,  and  then  his  eyes  looked  out  upon 
a  scene  which  made  him  pause  in  astonish 
ment.  It  was  a  great  room,  a  room  fifty 
feet  long  by  thirty  in  width,  and  never 
before  had  he  beheld  such  luxury  as  it  con 
tained.  His  feet  sank  into  velvet  carpets, 
the  walls  were  hung  richly  with  the  golds 
and  browns  and  crimsons  of  priceless  tapes 
tries,  and  carven  tables  and  divans  of  deep 
plush  and  oriental  chairs  filled  the  space 
before  him.  At  the  far  end  was  a  raised 
dais,  and  before  this,  illumined  in  candle- 
glow,  was  a  kneeling  figure.  He  noticed 
then  that  there  were  many  candles  burning, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  245 

that  the  room  was  lighted  by  candles,  and 
that  in  their  illumination  the  figure  did  not 
move.  He  caught  the  glint  of  armors 
standing  up,  warrior  like,  against  the 
tapestries,  and  he  wondered  for  a  moment 
if  the  kneeling  figure  was  a  heathen  god 
made  of  wood.  It  was  then  that  he 
smelled  the  odor  of  frankincense;  it  crept 
subtly  into  his  nostrils  and  his  mouth, 
sweetened  his  breath,  and  made  him 
cough. 

At  the  far  end,  before  the  dais,  the 
kneeling  figure  began  to  move.  Its  arms 
extended  slowly,  they  swept  backward, 
then  out  again,  and  three  times  the  figure 
bowed  itself  and  straightened,  and  with 
the  movement  came  a  low,  human  mono 
tone.  It  was  over  quickly.  Probably  two 
full  minutes  had  not  passed  since  Keith 
had  entered  when  the  kneeling  figure 
sprang  to  its  feet  with  the  quickness  of  a 
cat,  faced  about,  and  stood  there,  smiling 
and  bowing  and  extending  its  hand. 

"Good  evening,  John  Keith!"  It  was 
Shan  Tung.  An  oriental  gown  fell  about 
him,  draping  him  like  a  woman.  It  was 
a  crimson  gown,  grotesquely  ornamented 


246          THE  RIVER'S  END 

with  embroidered  peacocks,  and  it  flowed 
and  swept  about  him  in  graceful  undula 
tions  as  he  advanced,  his  footfalls  making 
not  the  sound  of  a  mouse  on  the  velvet 
floors. 

"Good  evening,  John  Keith!"  He  was 
close,  smiling,  his  eyes  glowing,  his  hand 
still  outstretched,  friendliness  in  his  voice 
and  manner.  And  yet  in  that  voice  there 
was  a  purr,  the  purr  of  a  cat  watching  its 
prey,  and  in  his  eyes  a  glow  that  was  the 
soft  rejoicing  of  a  triumph. 

Keith  did  not  take  the  hand.  He  made 
as  if  he  did  not  see  it.  He  was  looking 
into  those  glowing,  confident  eyes  of  the 
Chinaman.  A  Chinaman!  Was  it  pos 
sible?  Could  a  Chinaman  possess  that 
voice,  whose  very  perfection  shamed  him? 

Shan  Tung  seemed  to  read  his  thoughts. 
And  what  he  found  amused  him,  and  he 
bowed  again,  still  smiling.  "  I  am  Shan 
Tung,"  he  said  with  the  slightest  inflection 
of  irony.  "  Here — in  my  home — I  am  dif 
ferent.  Do  you  not  recognize  me?  " 

He  waved  gracefully  a  hand  toward  a 
table  on  either  side  of  which  was  a  chair. 
He  seated  himself,  not  waiting  for  Keith. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  247 

Keith  sat  down  opposite  him.  Again  he 
must  have  read  what  was  in  Keith's  heart, 
the  desire  and  the  intent  to  kill,  for  sud 
denly  he  clapped  his  hands,  not  loudly, 
once — twice 

"  You  will  join  me  in  tea?  "  he  asked. 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken  when  about 
them,  on  all  sides  of  them  it  seemed  to 
Keith,  there  was  a  rustle  of  life.  He  saw 
tapestries  move.  Before  his  eyes  a  panel 
became  a  door.  There  was  a  clicking,  a 
stir  as  of  gowns,  soft  footsteps,  a  movement 
in  the  air.  Out  of  the  panel  doorway  came 
a  Chinaman  with  a  cloth,  napkins,  and 
chinaware.  Behind  him  followed  a  second 
with  tea-urn  and  a  bowl,  and  with  the 
suddenness  of  an  apparition,  without  sound 
or  movement,  a  third  was  standing  at 
Keith's  side.  And  still  there  was  rustling 
behind,  still  there  was  the  whispering  beat 
of  life,  and  Keith  knew  that  there  were 
others.  He  did  not  flinch,  but  smiled  back 
at  Shan  Tung.  A  minute,  no  more,  and 
the  soft-footed  yellow  men  had  performed 
their  errands  and  were  gone. 

"  Quick  service,"  he  acknowledged. 
"Very  quick  service,  Shan  Tung!  But  I 


248          THE  RIVER'S  END 

have    my    hand    on     something    that    is 
quicker! " 

Suddenly  Shan  Tung  leaned  over  the 
table.  "John  Keith,  you  are  a  fool  if  you 
came  here  with  murder  in  your  heart,"  he 
said.  "  Let  us  be  friends.  It  is  best.  Let 
us  be  friends." 


XXI 

IT  was  as  if  with  a  swiftness  invisible  to 
the  eye  a  mask  had  dropped  from  Shan 
Tung's  face.  Keith,  preparing  to  fight, 
urging  himself  on  to  the  step  which  he 
believed  he  must  take,  was  amazed.  Shan 
Tung  was  earnest.  There  was  more  than 
earnestness  in  his  eyes,  an  anxiety,  a 
frankly  revealed  hope  that  Keith  would 
meet  him  halfway.  But  he  did  not  offer 
his  hand  again.  He  seemed  to  sense,  in 
that  instant,  the  vast  gulf  between  yellow 
and  white.  He  felt  Keith's  contempt,  the 
spurning  contumely  that  was  in  the  other's 
mind.  Under  the  pallid  texture  of  his  skin 
there  began  to  burn  a  slow  and  growing 
flush. 

"  Wait!  "  he  said  softly.  In  his  flowing 
gown  he  seemed  to  glide  to  a  carven  desk 
near  at  hand.  He  was  back  in  a  moment 
with  a  roll  of  parchment  in  his  hand.  He 
sat  down  again  and  met  Keith's  eyes 
249 


250          THE  RIVER'S  END 

squarely  and  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
"  We  are  both  men,  John  Keith."  His 
voice  was  soft  and  calm.  His  tapering 
fingers  with  their  carefully  manicured 
nails  fondled  the  roll  of  parchment,  and 
then  unrolled  it,  and  held  it  so  the  other 
could  read. 

It  was  a  university  diploma.  Keith 
stared.  A  strange  name  was  scrolled  upon 
it,  Kao  Lung,  Prince  of  Shantung.  His 
mind  leaped  to  the  truth.  He  looked  at 
the  other. 

The  man  he  had  known  as  Shan  Tung 
met  his  eyes  with  a  quiet,  strange  smile,  a 
smile  in  which  there  was  pride,  a  flash  of 
sovereignty,  of  a  thing  greater  than  skins 
that  were  white.  "  I  am  Prince  Kao,"  he 
said.  "  That  is  my  diploma.  I  am  a 
graduate  of  Yale." 

Keith's  effort  to  speak  was  merely  a 
grunt.  He  could  find  no  words.  And 
Kao,  rolling  up  the  parchment  and  for 
getting  the  urn  of  tea  that  was  growing 
cold,  leaned  a  little  over  the  table  again. 
And  then  it  was,  deep  in  his  narrowed, 
smoldering  eyes,  that  Keith  saw  a  devil, 
a  living,  burning  thing  of  passion,  Kao's 


THE  RIVER'S  END  251 

soul  itself.  And  Kao's  voice  was  quiet, 
deadly. 

"I  recognized  you  in  McDowell's  of 
fice,"  he  said.  "  I  saw,  first,  that  you  were 
not  Derwent  Conniston.  And  then  it  was 
easy,  so  easy.  Perhaps  you  killed  Connis 
ton.  I  am  not  asking,  for  I  hated  Con 
niston.  Some  day  I  should  have  killed 
him,  if  he  had  come  back.  John  Keith, 
from  that  first  time  we  met,  you  were  a 
dead  man.  Why  didn't  I  turn  you  over  to 
the  hangman?  Why  did  I  warn  you  in 
such  a  way  that  I  knew  you  would  come 
to  see  me?  Why  did  I  save  your  life 
which  was  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand? 
Can  you  guess?" 

"  Partly,"  replied  Keith.  "  But  go  on. 
I  am  waiting."  Not  for  an  instant  did  it 
enter  his  mind  to  deny  that  he  was  John 
Keith.  Denial  was  folly,  a  waste  of  time, 
and  just  now  he  felt  that  nothing  in  the 
world  was  more  precious  to  him  than  time. 

Kao's  quick  mind,  scheming  and  treach 
erous  though  it  was,  caught  his  view-point, 
and  he  nodded  appreciatively.  "  Good, 
John  Keith.  It  is  easily  guessed.  Your 
life  is  mine.  I  can  save  it.  I  can  destroy 


252          THE  RIVER'S  END 

it.  And  you,  in  turn,  can  be  of  service 
to  me.  You  help  me,  and  I  save  you.  It 
is  a  profitable  arrangement.  And  we  both 
are  happy,  for  you  keep  Derwent  Connis- 
ton's  sister — and  I — I  get  my  golden- 
headed  goddess,  Miriam  Kirkstone!" 

"  That  much  I  have  guessed,"  said 
Keith.  "Go  on!"  For  a  moment  Kao 
seemed  to  hesitate,  to  study  the  cold,  gray 
passiveness  of  the  other's  face.  "  You 
love  Derwent  Conniston's  sister,"  he  con 
tinued  in  a  voice  still  lower  and  softer* 
"And  I — I  love  my  golden-headed  god 
dess.  See!  Up  there  on  the  dais  I  have 
her  picture  and  a  tress  of  her  golden  hair, 
and  I  worship  them." 

Colder  and  grayer  was  Keith's  face  as  he 
saw  the  slumbering  passion  burn  fiercer  in 
Kao's  eyes.  It  turned  him  sick.  It  was 
a  terrible  thing  which  could  not  be  called 
love.  It  was  a  madness.  But  Kao,  the 
man  himself,  was  not  mad.  He  was  a 
monster.  And  while  the  eyes  burned  like 
two  devils,  his  voice  was  still  soft  and  low. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking;  I  see 
what  you  are  seeing,"  he  said.  "  You  are 
thinking  yellow,  and  you  are  seeing  yellow. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  253 

My  skin!    My  birthright!    My "    He 

smiled,  and  his  voice  was  almost  caressing. 
"  John  Keith,  in  Pe-Chi-Li  is  the  great 
city  of  Pekin,  and  Pe-Chi-Li  is  the  greatest 
province  in  all  China.  And  second  only 
to  that  is  the  province  of  Shantung,  which 
borders  Pe-Chi-Li,  the  home  of  our  Em 
perors  for  more  centuries  than  you  have 
years.  And  for  so  many  generations  that 
we  cannot  remember  my  forefathers  have 
been  rulers  of  Shantung.  My  grandfather 
was  a  Mandarin  with  the  insignia  of  the 
Eighth  Order,  and  my  father  was  Ninth 
and  highest  of  all  Orders,  with  his  palace 
at  Tsi-Nan,  on  the  Yellow  Sea.  And  I, 
Prince  Kao,  eldest  of  his  sons,  came  to 
America  to  learn  American  law  and  Ameri 
can  ways.  And  I  learned  them,  John  Keith. 
I  returned,  and  with  my  knowledge  I 
undermined  a  government.  For  a  time  I 
was  in  power,  and  then  this  thing  you  call 
the  god  of  luck  turned  against  me,  and  I 
fled  for  my  life.  But  the  blood  is  still 
here—  "  he  put  his  hand  softly  to  his  breast, 
" — the  blood  of  a  hundred  generations  of 
rulers.  I  tell  you  this  because  you  dare 
not  betray  me,  you  dare  not  tell  them  who 


254          THE  RIVER'S  END 

I  am,  though  even  that  truth  could  not 
harm  me.  I  prefer  to  be  known  as  Shan 
Tung.  Only  you — and  Miriam  Kirkstone 
— have  heard  as  much." 

Keith's  blood  was  like  fire,  but  his  voice 
was  cold  as  ice.  "Go  on!" 

This  time  there  could  be  no  mistake. 
That  cold  gray  of  his  passionless  face,  the 
steely  glitter  in  his  eyes,  were  read  cor 
rectly  by  Kao.  His  eyes  narrowed.  For 
the  first  time  a  dull  flame  leaped  into  his 
colorless  cheeks. 

"  Ah,  I  told  you  this  because  I  thought 
we  would  work  together,  friends,"  he 
cried.  "  But  it  is  not  so.  You,  like  my 
golden-headed  goddess,  hate  me!  You 
hate  me  because  of  my  yellow  skin.  You 
say  to  yourself  that  I  have  a  yellow  heart. 
And  she  hates  me,  and  she  says  that — but 
she  is  mine,  mine!"  He  sprang  suddenly 
to  his  feet  and  swept  about  him  with  his 
flowing  arms.  "  See  what  I  have  prepared 
for  her!  It  is  here  she  will  come,  here 
she  will  live  until  I  take  her  away.  There, 
on  that  dais,  she  will  give  up  her  soul  and 
her  beautiful  body  to  me — and  you  can 
not  help  it,  she  cannot  help  it,  all  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  255 

world  cannot  help  it — and  she  is  coming  to 
me  tonight!'' 

"  Tonight!  "  gasped  John  Keith. 

He,  too,  leaped  to  his  feet.  His  face  was 
ghastly.  And  Kao,  in  his  silken  gown,  was 
sweeping  his  arms  about  him. 

"  Seel  The  candles  are  lighted  for  her. 
They  are  waiting.  And  tonight,  when  the 
town  is  asleep,  she  will  come.  And  it  is 
you  who  will  make  her  come,  John 
Keith!" 

Facing  the  devils  in  Kao's  eyes,  within 
striking  distance  of  a  creature  who  was  no 
longer  a  man  but  a  monster,  Keith  mar 
veled  at  the  coolness  that  held  him  back. 

"  Yes,  it  is  you  who  will  at  last  give  her 
soul  and  her  beautiful  body  to  me,"  he 
repeated.  "  Come.  I  will  show  you  how 
—and  why  I  " 

He  glided  toward  the  dais.  His  hand 
touched  a  panel.  It  opened  and  in  the 
opening  he  turned  about  and  waited  for 
Keith. 

"Come!"  he  said. 

Keith,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  his  soul 
ready  for  the  shock,  his  body  ready  for 
action,  followed  him. 


XXII 

INTO  a  narrow  corridor,  through  a 
second  door  that  seemed  made  of 
padded  wool,  and  then  into  a  dimly  lighted 
room  John  Keith  followed  Kao,  the  China 
man.  Out  of  this  room  there  was  no  other 
exit;  it  was  almost  square,  its  ceiling  was 
low,  its  walls  darkly  somber,  and  that  life 
was  there  Keith  knew  by  the  heaviness  of 
cigarette  smoke  in  the  air.  For  a  moment 
his  eyes  did  not  discern  the  physical  evi 
dence  of  that  life.  And  then,  staring  at 
him  out  of  the  yellow  glow,  he  saw  a  face. 
It  was  a  haunting,  terrible  face,  a  face 
heavy  and  deeply  lined  by  sagging  flesh 
and  with  eyes  sunken  and  staring.  They 
were  more  than  staring.  They  greeted 
Keith  like  living  coals.  Under  the  face 
was  a  human  form,  a  big,  fat,  sagging  form 
that  leaned  outward  from  its  seat  in  a 
chair. 

Kao,  bowing,  sweeping  his  flowing  rai- 
256 


THE  RIVER'S  END  257 

ment  with  his  arms,  said,  "  John  Keith, 
allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  Peter  Kirk- 
stone." 

For  the  first  time  amazement,  shock, 
came  to  Keith's  lips  in  an  audible  cry.  He 
advanced  a  step.  Yes,  in  that  pitiable 
wreck  of  a  man  he  recognized  Peter  Kirk- 
stone,  the  fat  creature  who  had  stood  under 
the  picture  of  the  Madonna  that  fateful 
night,  Miriam  Kirkstone's  brother! 

And  as  he  stood,  speechless,  Kao  said: 
"  Peter  Kirkstone,  you  know  why  I  have 
brought  this  man  to  you  tonight.  You 
know  that  he  is  not  Derwent  Conniston. 
You  know  that  he  is  John  Keith,  the 
murderer  of  your  father.  Is  it  not  so?  " 

The  thick  lips  moved.  The  voice  was 
husky— "  Yes." 

"  He  does  not  believe.  So  I  have 
brought  him  that  he  may  listen  to  you. 
Peter  Kirkstone,  is  it  your  desire  that  your 
sister,  Miriam,  give  herself  to  me,  Prince 
Kao,  tonight?  " 

Again  the  thick  lips  moved.  This  time 
Keith  saw  the  effort.  He  shuddered.  He 
knew  these  questions  and  answers  had  been 
prepared.  A  doomed  man  was  speaking. 


258          THE  RIVER'S  END 

And  the  voice  came,  choking,  "  Yes." 

"  Why?  " 

The  terrible  face  of  Peter  Kirkstone 
seemed  to  contort.  He  looked  at  Kao. 
And  Kao's  eyes  were  shining  in  that  dull 
room  like  the  eyes  of  a  snake. 

"  Because — it  will  save  my  life." 

"  And  why  will  it  save  your  life?  " 

Again  that  pause,  again  the  sickly,  chok 
ing  effort.  "  Because — /  have  killed  a, 
man." 

Bowing,  smiling,  rustling,  Kao  turned  to 
the  door.  "That  is  all,  Peter  Kirkstone. 
Good  night.  John  Keith,  will  you  follow 
me?" 

Dumbly  Keith  followed  through  the 
dark  corridor,  into  the  big  room  mellow 
with  candle-glow,  back  to  the  table  with 
its  mocking  tea-urn  and  chinaware.  He 
felt  a  thing  like  clammy  sweat  on  his  back. 
He  sat  down.  And  Kao  sat  opposite  him 
again. 

"  That  is  the  reason,  John  Keith.  Peter 
Kirkstone,  her  brother,  is  a  murderer,  a 
cold-blooded  murderer.  And  only  Miriam 
Kirkstone  and  your  humble  servant,  Prince 
Kao,  know  his  secret.  And  to  buy  my 


THE  RIVER'S  END  259 

secret,  to  save  his  life,  the  golden-headed 
goddess  is  almost  ready  to  give  herself  to 
me — almost,  John  Keith.  She  will  decide 
tonight,  when  you  go  to  her.  She  will 
come.  Yes,  she  will  come  tonight.  I  do 
not  fear.  I  have  prepared  for  her  the 
candles,  the  bridal  dais,  the  nuptial  supper. 
Oh,  she  will  come.  For  if  she  does  not,  if 
she  fails,  with  tomorrow's  dawn  Peter 
Kirkstone  and  John  Keith  both  go  to  the 
hangman!  " 

Keith,  in  spite  of  the  horror  that  had 
come  over  him,  felt  no  excitement.  The 
whole  situation  was  clear  to  him  now,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  argu 
ment,  no  possibility  of  evasion.  Kao  held 
the  winning  hand,  the  hand  that  put  his 
back  to  the  wall  in  the  face  of  impossible 
alternatives.  These  alternatives  flashed 
upon  him  swiftly.  There  were  two  and 
only  two — flight,  and  alone,  without  Mary 
Josephine;  and  betrayal  of  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone.  Just  how  Kao  schemed  that  he 
should  accomplish  that  betrayal,  he  could 
not  guess. 

His  voice,  like  his  face,  was  cold  and 
strange  when  it  answered  the  Chinaman; 


26o          THE  RIVER'S  END 

it  lacked  passion;  there  was  no  emphasis, 
no  inflection  that  gave  to  one  word  more 
than  to  another.  And  Keith,  listening  to 
his  own  voice,  knew  what  it  meant.  He 
was  cold  inside,  cold  as  ice,  and  his  eyes 
were  on  the  dais,  the  sacrificial  altar  that 
Kao  had  prepared,  waiting  in  the  candle- 
glow.  On  the  floor  of  that  dais  was  a  great 
splash  of  dull-gold  altar  cloth,  and  it  made 
him  think  of  Miriam  Kirkstone's  unbound 
and  disheveled  hair  strewn  in  its  outraged 
glory  over  the  thing  Kao  had  prepared  for 
her. 

"  I  see.  It  is  a  trade,  Kao.  You  are 
offering  me  my  life  in  return  for  Miriam 
Kirkstone." 

"  More  than  that,  John  Keith.  Mine  is 
the  small  price.  And  yet  it  is  great  to  me, 
for  it  gives  me  the  golden  goddess.  But  is 
she  more  to  me  than  Derwent  Conniston's 
sister  may  be  to  you?  Yes,  I  am  giving 
you  her,  and  I  am  giving  you  your  life, 
and  I  am  giving  Peter  Kirkstone  his  life 
— all  for  one." 

"  For  one,"  repeated  Keith. 

"  Yes,  for  one." 

"  And  I,  John  Keith,  in  some  mysterious 


THE  RIVER'S  END  261 

way  unknown  to  me  at  present,  ant  to  de 
liver  Miriam  Kirkstone  to  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  yet,  if  I  should  kill  you,  now — 
where  you  sit " 

Kao  shrugged  his  slim  shoulders,  and 
Keith  heard  that  soft,  gurgling  laugh  that 
McDowell  had  said  was  like  the  splutter  of 
oil. 

"  I  have  arranged.  It  is  all  in  writing. 
If  anything  should  happen  to  me,  there  are 
messengers  who  would  carry  it  swiftly. 
To  harm  me  would  be  to  seal  your  own 
doom.  Besides,  you  would  not  leave  here 
alive.  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  How  am  I  to  deliver  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone  to  you?  " 

Kao  leaned  forward,  his  fingers  interlac 
ing  eagerly.  "  Ah,  now  you  have  asked  the 
question,  John  Keith!  And  we  shall  be 
friends,  great  friends,  for  you  see  with  the 
eyes  of  wisdom.  It  will  be  easy,  so  easy 
that  you  will  wonder  at  the  cheapness  of 
the  task.  Ten  days  ago  Miriam  Kirkstone 
was  about  to  pay  my  price.  And  then  you 
came.  From  that  moment  she  saw  you  in 
McDowell's  office,  there  was  a  sudden 


262  THE  RIVER'S  END 

change.  Why?  I  don't  know.  Perhaps 
because  of  that  thing  you  call  intuition  but 
to  which  we  give  a  greater  name.  Perhaps 
only  because  you  were  the  man  who  had 
run  down  her  father's  murderer.  I  saw 
her  that  afternoon,  before  you  went  up  at 
night.  Ah,  yes,  I  could  see,  I  could  under 
stand  the  spark  that  had  begun  to  grow 
in  her,  hope,  a  wild,  impossible  hope,  and 
I  prepared  for  it  by  leaving  you  my  mes 
sage.  I  went  away.  I  knew  that  in  a  few 
days  all  that  hope  would  be  centered  in 
you,  that  it  would  live  and  die  in  you, 
that  in  the  end  it  would  be  your  word 
that  would  bring  her  to  me.  And  that 
word  you  must  speak  tonight.  You  must 
go  to  her,  hope-broken.  You  must  tell  her 
that  no  power  on  earth  can  save  her,  and 
that  Kao  waits  to  make  her  a  princess,  that 
tomorrow  will  be  too  late,  that  tonight 
must  the  bargain  be  closed.  She  will 
come.  She  will  save  her  brother  from  the 
hangman,  and  you,  in  bringing  her,  will 
save  John  Keith  and  keep  Derwent  Con- 
niston's  sister.  Is  it  not  a  great  reward 
for  the  little  I  am  asking?" 

It  was  Keith  who  now  smiled  into  the 


THE  RIVER'S  END  263 

eyes  of  the  Chinaman,  but  it  was  a  smile 
that  did  not  soften  that  gray  and  rock-like 
hardness  that  had  settled  in  his  face. 
"  Kao,  you  are  a  devil.  I  suppose  that  is  a 
compliment  to  your  dirty  ears.  You're 
rotten  to  the  core  of  the  thing  that  beats  in 
you  like  a  heart;  you're  a  yellow  snake 
from  the  skin  in.  I  came  to  see  you  be 
cause  I  thought  there  might  be  a  way  out 
of  this  mess.  I  had  almost  made  up  my 
mind  to  kill  you.  But  I  won't  do  that 
There's  a  better  way.  In  half  an  hour  I'll 
be  with  McDowell,  and  I'll  beat  you  out 
by  telling  him  that  I'm  John  Keith.  And 
I'll  tell  him  this  story  of  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone  from  beginning  to  end.  I'll  tell  him 
of  that  dais  you've  built  for  her — your 
sacrificial  altar! — and  tomorrow  Prince 
Albert  will  rise  to  a  man  to  drag  you  out 
of  this  hole  and  kill  you  as  they  would 
kill  a  rat.  That  is  my  answer,  you  slit- 
eyed,  Yale-veneered  yellow  devil!  I  may 
die,  and  Peter  Kirkstone  may  die,  but 
you'll  not  get  Miriam  Kirkstone  I  " 

He  was  on  his  feet  when  he  finished, 
amazed  at  the  calmness  of  his  own  voice, 
amazed  that  his  hands  were  steady  and  his 


264          THE  RIVER'S  END 

brain  was  cool  in  this  hour  of  his  sacrifice. 
And  Kao  was  stunned.  Before  his  eyes  he 
saw  a  white  man  throwing  away  his  life. 
Here,  in  the  final  play,  was  a  master-stroke 
he  had  not  foreseen.  A  moment  before  the 
victor,  he  was  now  the  vanquished.  About 
him  he  saw  his  world  falling,  his  power 
gone,  his  own  life  suddenly  hanging  by  a 
thread.  In  Keith's  face  he  read  the  truth. 
This  white  man  was  not  bluffing.  He 
would  go  to  McDowell.  He  would  tell 
the  truth.  This  man  who  had  ventured  so 
much  for  his  own  life  and  freedom  would 
now  sacrifice  that  life  to  save  a  girl,  one 
girl!  He  could  not  understand,  and  yet  he 
believed.  For  it  was  there  before  his  eyes 
in  that  gray,  passionless  face  that  was  as 
inexorable  as  the  face  of  one  of  his  own 
stone  gods. 

As  he  uttered  the  words  that  smashed  all 
that  Kao  had  planned  for,  Keith  sensed 
rather  than  saw  the  swift  change  of  emo 
tion  sweeping  through  the  yellow-visaged 
Moloch  staring  up  at  him.  For  a  space  the 
oriental's  evil  eyes  had  widened,  exposing 
wider  rims  of  saffron  white,  betraying  his 
amazement,  the  shock  of  Keith's  unex- 


THE  RIVER'S  END  265 

pected  revolt,  and  then  the  lids  closed 
slowly,  until  only  dark  and  menacing 
gleams  of  fire  shot  between  them,  and 
Keith  thought  of  the  eyes  of  a  snake. 
Swift  as  the  strike  of  a  rattler  Kao  was  on 
his  feet,  his  gown  thrown  back,  one  claw 
ing  hand  jerking  a  derringer  from  his 
silken  belt.  In  the  same  breath  he  raised 
his  voice  in  a  sharp  call. 

Keith  sprang  back.  The  snake-like 
threat  in  the  Chinaman's  eyes  had  pre 
pared  him,  and  his  Service  automatic 
leaped  from  its  holster  with  lightning 
swiftness.  Yet  that  movement  was  no 
swifter  than  the  response  to  Kao's  cry. 
The  panel  shot  open,  the  screens  moved, 
tapestries  billowed  suddenly  as  if  moved 
by  the  wind,  and  Kao's  servants  sprang 
forth  and  were  at  him  like  a  pack  of  dogs. 
Keith  had  no  time  to  judge  their  number, 
for  his  brain  was  centered  in  the  race  with 
Kao's  derringer.  He  saw  its  silver  mount 
ings  flash  in  the  candle-glow,  saw  its  spurt 
of  smoke  and  fire.  But  its  report  was 
drowned  in  the  roar  of  his  automatic  as 
it  replied  with  a  stream  of  lead  and  flame. 
He  saw  the  derringer  fall  and  Kao 


a66          THE  RIVER'S  END 

crumple  up  like  a  jackknife.  His  brain 
turned  red  as  he  swung  his  weapon  on  the 
others,  and  as  he  fired,  he  backed  toward 
the  door.  Then  something  caught  him 
from  behind,  twisting  his  head  almost 
from  his  shoulders,  and  he  went  down. 

He  lost  his  automatic.  Weight  of  bodies 
was  upon  him;  yellow  hands  clutched  for 
his  throat;  he  felt  hot  breaths  and  heard 
throaty  cries.  A  madness  of  horror  pos 
sessed  him,  a  horror  that  was  like  the  blind 
madness  of  Laocoon  struggling  with  his 
sons  in  the  coils  of  the  giant  serpent.  In 
these  moments  he  was  not  fighting  men. 
They  were  monsters,  yellow,  foul-smelling, 
unhuman,  and  he  fought  as  Laocoon 
fought.  As  if  it  had  been  a  cane,  he 
snapped  the  bone  of  an  arm  whose  hand 
was  throttling  him;  he  twisted  back  a  head 
until  it  snapped  between  its  shoulders;  he 
struck  and  broke  with  a  blind  fury  and  a 
giant  strength,  until  at  last,  torn  and  cov 
ered  with  blood,  he  leaped  free  and 
reached  the  door.  As  he  opened  it  and 
sprang  through,  he  had  the  visual  im 
pression  that  only  two  of  his  assailants  were 
rising  from  the  floor. 


THE  RIVER'S  END  267 

For  the  space  of  a  second  he  hesitated 
in  the  little  hallway.  Down  the  stairs  was 
light — and  people.  He  knew  that  he  was 
bleeding  and  his  clothes  were  torn,  and 
that  flight  in  that  direction  was  impossible. 
At  the  opposite  end  of  the  hall  was  a  cur 
tain  which  he  judged  must  cover  a  window. 
With  a  swift  movement  he  tore  down  this 
curtain  and  found  that  he  was  right.  In 
another  second  he  had  crashed  the  window 
outward  with  his  shoulder,  and  felt  the 
cool  air  of  the  night  in  his  face.  The  door 
behind  him  was  still  closed  when  he 
crawled  out  upon  a  narrow  landing  at  the 
top  of  a  flight  of  steps  leading  down  into 
the  alley.  He  paused  long  enough  to  con 
vince  himself  that  his  enemies  were  mak 
ing  no  effort  to  follow  him,  and  as  he  went 
down  the  steps,  he  caught  himself  grimly 
chuckling.  He  had  given  them  enough. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  alley  he  paused 
again.  A  cool  breeze  fanned  his  cheeks, 
and  the  effect  of  it  was  to  free  him  of  the 
horror  that  had  gripped  him  in  his  fight 
with  the  yellow  men.  Again  the  calmness 
with  which  he  had  faced  Kao  possessed 
him.  The  Chinaman  was  dead.  He  was 


268          THE  RIVER'S  END 

sure  of  that.  And  for  him  there  was  not 
a  minute  to  lose. 

After  all,  it  was  his  fate.  The  game  had 
been  played,  and  he  had  lost.  There  was 
one  thing  left  undone,  one  play  Conniston 
would  still  make,  if  he  were  there.  And 
he,  too,  would  make  it.  It  was  no  longer 
necessary  for  him  to  give  himself  up  to 
McDowell,  for  Kao  was  dead,  and  Miriam 
Kirkstone  was  saved.  It  was  still  right  and 
just  for  him  to  fight  for  his  life.  But 
Mary  Josephine  must  know  from  him.  It 
was  the  last  square  play  he  could  make. 

No  one  saw  him  as  he  made  his  way 
through  alleys  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  came  up  the 
slope  to  the  Shack.  It  was  lighted,  and 
the  curtains  were  raised  to  brighten  his 
way  up  the  hill.  Mary  Josephine  was 
waiting  for  him. 

Again  there  came  over  him  the  strange 
and  deadly  calmness  with  which  he  had 
met  the  tragedy  of  that  night.  He  had 
tried  to  wipe  the  blood  from  his  face,  but 
it  was  still  there  when  he  entered  and 
faced  Mary  Josephine.  The  wounds  made 
by  the  razor-like  nails  of  his  assailants 


THE  RIVER'S  END  269 

were  bleeding;  he  was  hatless,  his  hair  was 
disheveled,  and  his  throat  and  a  part  of 
his  chest  were  bare  where  his  clothes  had 
been  torn  away.  As  Mary  Josephine  came 
toward  him,  her  arms  reaching  out  to  him, 
her  face  dead  white,  he  stretched  out  a 
restraining  hand,  and  said, 

"  Please  wait,  Mary  Josephine!  " 

Something  stopped  her — the  strangeness 
of  his  voice,  the  terrible  hardness  of  his 
face,  gray  and  blood-stained,  the  something 
appalling  and  commanding  in  the  way  he 
had  spoken.  He  passed  her  quickly  on  his 
way  to  the  telephone.  Her  lips  moved; 
she  tried  to  speak;  one  of  her  hands  went 
to  her  throat.  He  was  calling  Miriam 
Kirkstone's  number!  And  now  she  saw 
that  his  hands,  too,  were  bleeding.  There 
came  the  murmur  of  a  voice  in  the  tele 
phone.  Someone  answered.  And  then  she 
heard  him  say, 

"Shan  Tung  is  dead!" 

That  was  all.  He  hung  up  the  receiver 
and  turned  toward  her.  With  a  little  cry 
she  moved  toward  him. 

"  Derry — Derry— 

He  evaded  her  and  pointed  to  the  big 


270          THE  RIVER'S  END 

chair  in  front  of  the  fireplace.  "  Sit  down, 
Mary  Josephine." 

She  obeyed  him.  Her  face  was  whiter 
than  he  had  thought  a  living  face  could  be, 
And  then,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end, 
he  told  her  everything.  Mary  Josephine 
made  no  sound,  and  in  the  big  chair  she 
seemed  to  crumple  smaller  and  smaller  as 
he  confessed  the  great  lie  to  her,  from  the 
hour  Conniston  and  he  had  traded  identi 
ties  in  the  little  cabin  on  the  Barren.  Until 
he  died  he  knew  she  would  haunt  him  as 
he  saw  her  there  for  the  last  time — her 
dead-white  face,  her  great  eyes,  her  voice 
less  lips,  her  two  little  hands  clutched  at 
her  breast  as  she  listened  to  the  story  of  the 
great  lie  and  his  love  for  her. 

Even  when  he  had  done,  she  did  not 
move  or  speak.  He  went  into  his  room, 
closed  the  door,  and  turned  on  the  lights. 
Quickly  he  put  into  his  pack  what  he 
needed.  And  when  he  was  ready,  he  wrote 
on  a  piece  of  paper: 

"  A  thousand  times  I  repeat,  c  I  love 
you.'  Forgive  me  if  you  can.  If  you  can 
not  forgive,  you  may  tell  McDowell,  and 


THE  RIVER'S  END  271 

the  Law  will  find  me  up  at  the  place  of 
our  dreams — the  river's  end. 

JOHN  KEITH." 

This  last  message  he  left  on  the  table  for 
Mary  Josephine. 

For  a  moment  he  listened  at  the  dcor. 
Outside  there  was  no  movement,  no  sound. 
Quietly,  then,  he  raised  the  window 
through  which  Kao  had  come  into  his 
room. 

A  moment  later  he  stood  under  the  light 
of  the  brilliant  stars.  Faintly  there  came 
to  him  the  sounds  of  the  city,  the  sound  of 
life,  of  gayety,  of  laughter  and  of  happi 
ness,  rising  to  him  now  from  out  of  the 
valley. 

He  faced  the  north.  Down  the  side  of 
the  hill  and  over  the  valley  lay  the  forests. 
And  through  the  starlight  he  strode  back 
to  them  once  more,  back  to  their  cloisters 
and  their  heritage,  the  heritage  of  the 
hunted  and  the  outcast. 


XXIII 

ALL  through  the  starlit  hours  of  that 
night  John  Keith  trudged  steadily 
into  the  Northwest.  For  a  long  time  his 
direction  took  him  through  slashings,  sec 
ond-growth  timber,  and  cleared  lands;  he 
followed  rough  roads  and  worn  trails  and 
passed  cabins  that  were  dark  and  without 
life  in  the  silence  of  midnight.  Twice  a 
dog  caught  the  stranger  scent  in  the  air 
and  howled;  once  he  heard  a  man's  voice, 
far  away,  raised  in  a  shout.  Then  the 
trails  grew  rougher.  He  came  to  a  deep 
wide  swamp.  He  remembered  that  swamp, 
and  before  he  plunged  into  it,  he  struck  a 
match  to  look  at  his  compass  and  his  watch. 
It  took  him  two  hours  to  make  the  other 
side.  He  was  in  the  deep  and  uncut  timber 
then,  and  a  sense  of  relief  swept  over  him. 
The  forest  was  again  his  only  friend. 

He  did  not  rest.    His  brain  and  his  body 
demanded   the   action   of   steady   progress, 

'hough  it  was  not  through  fear  of  what  lay 
272 


THE  RIVER'S  END  273 

behind  him.  Fear  had  ceased  to  be  a 
stimulating  part  of  him;  it  was  even  dead 
within  him.  It  was  as  if  his  energy  was 
engaged  in  fighting  for  a  principle,  and  the 
principle  was  his  life;  he  was  following  a 
duty,  and  this  duty  impelled  him  to  make 
his  greatest  effort.  He  saw  clearly  what 
he  had  done  and  what  was  ahead  of  him. 
He  was  twice  a  killer  of  men  now,  and 
each  time  the  killing  had  rid  the  earth  of  a 
snake.  This  last  time  it  had  been  an  ex 
ceedingly  good  job.  Even  McDowell 
would  concede  that,  and  Miriam  Kirk- 
stone,  on  her  knees,  would  thank  God  for 
what  he  had  done.  But  Canadian  law 
did  not  split  hairs  like  its  big  neighbor  on 
the  south.  It  wanted  him  at  least  for 
Kirkstone's  killing  if  not  for  that  of  Kao, 
the  Chinaman.  No  one,  not  even  Mary 
Josephine,  would  ever  fully  realize  what 
he  had  sacrificed  for  the  daughter  of  the 
man  who  had  ruined  his  father.  For  Mary 
Josephine  would  never  understand  how 
deeply  he  had  loved  her. 

It  surprised  him  to  find  how  naturally 
he  fell  back  into  his  old  habit  of  discuss 
ing  things  with  himself,  and  how  com- 


274          THE  RIVER'S  END 

pletely  and  calmly  he  accepted  the  fact 
that  his  home-coming  had  been  but  a  brief 
and  wonderful  interlude  to  his  fugitivism. 
He  did  not  know  it  at  first,  but  this  calm 
ness  was  the  calmness  of  a  despair  more 
fatal  than  the  menace  of  the  hangman. 

"  They  won't  catch  me,"  he  encouraged 
himself.  "  And  she  won't  tell  them  where 
I'm  going.  No,  she  won't  do  that." 

He  found  himself  repeating  that  thought 
over  and  over  again.  Mary  Josephine 
would  not  betray  him.  He  repeated  it, 
not  as  a  conviction,  but  to  fight  back  and 
hold  down  another  thought  that  persisted 
in  forcing  itself  upon  him.  And  this  thing, 
that  at  times  was  like  a  voice  within  him, 
cried  out  in  its  moments  of  life,  "  She 
hates  you — and  she  will  tell  where  you  are 
going!" 

With  each  hour  it  was  harder  for  him  to 
keep  that  voice  down;  it  persisted,  it  grew 
stronger;  in  its  intervals  of  triumph  it 
rose  over  and  submerged  all  other  thoughts 
in  him.  It  was  not  his  fear  of  her  be 
trayal  that  stabbed  him;  it  was  the  under 
lying  motive  of  it,  the  hatred  that  would 
inspire  it.  He  tried  not  to  vision  her  as 


THE  RIVER'S  END  275 

he  had  seen  her  last,  in  the  big  chair, 
crushed,  shamed,  outraged — seeing  in  him 
no  longer  the  beloved  brother,  but  an  im 
postor,  a  criminal,  a  man  whom  she  might 
suspect  of  killing  that  brother  for  his  name 
and  his  place  in  life.  But  the  thing  forced 
itself  on  him.  It  was  reasonable,  and  it 
was  justice. 

"  But  she  won't  do  it,"  he  told  himself. 
"  She  won't  do  it." 

This  was  his  fight,  and  its  winning  meant 
more  to  him  than  freedom.  It  was  Mary 
Josephine  who  would  live  with  him  now, 
and  not  Conniston.  It  was  her  spirit  that 
would  abide  with  him,  her  voice  he  would 
hear  in  the  whispers  of  the  night,  her  face 
he  would  see  in  the  glow  of  his  lonely  fires, 
and  she  must  remain  with  him  always  as 
the  Mary  Josephine  he  had  known.  So  he 
crushed  back  the  whispering  voice,  beat 
it  down  with  his  hands  clenched  at  his 
side,  fought  it  through  the  hours  of  that 
night  with  the  desperation  of  one  who 
fights  for  a  thing  greater  than  life. 

Toward  dawn  the  stars  began  to  fade 
out  of  the  sky.  He  had  been  tireless,  and 
he  was  tireless  now.  He  felt  no  exhaus- 


276          THE  RIVER'S  END 

tion.  Through  the  gray  gloom  that  came 
before  day  he  went  on,  and  the  first  glow 
of  sun  found  him  still  traveling.  Prince 
Albert  and  the  Saskatchewan  were  thirty 
miles  to  the  south  and  east  of  him. 

He  stopped  at  last  on  the  edge  of  a 
little  lake  and  unburdened  himself  of  his 
pack  for  the  first  time.  He  was  glad  thai 
the  premonition  of  just  such  a  sudden 
flight  as  this  had  urged  him  to  fill  his 
emergency  grub-sack  yesterday  morning. 
"  Won't  do  any  harm  for  us  to  be  pre 
pared,"  he  had  laughed  jokingly  to  Mary 
Josephine,  and  Mary  Josephine  herself  had 
made  him  double  the  portion  of  bacon 
because  she  was  fond  of  it.  It  was  hard 
for  him  to  slice  that  bacon  without  a  lump 
rising  in  his  throat.  Pork  and  love!  He 
wanted  to  laugh,  and  he  wanted  to  cry, 
and  between  the  two  it  was  a  queer,  half- 
choked  sound  that  came  to  his  lips.  He 
ate  a  good  breakfast,  rested  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  and  went  on.  At  a  more  leisurely 
pace  he  traveled  through  most  of  the  day, 
and  at  night  he  camped. 

In  the  ten  days  following  his  flight  from 
Prince  Albert  he  kept  utterly  out  of  sight 


THE  RIVER'S  END  277 

He  avoided  trappers'  shacks  and  trails  and 
occasional  Indians.  He  rid  himself  of  his 
beard  and  shaved  himself  every  other  day. 
Mary  Josephine  had  never  cared  much  for 
the  beard.  It  prickled.  She  had  wanted 
him  smooth-faced,  and  now  he  was  that. 
He  looked  better,  too.  But  the  most  strik 
ing  resemblance  to  Derwent  Conniston  was 
gone.  At  the  end  of  the  ten  days  he  was 
at  Turtle  Lake,  fifty  miles  east  of  Fort 
Pitt.  He  believed  that  he  could  show  him 
self  openly  now,  and  on  the  tenth  day 
bartered  with  some  Indians  for  fresh  sup 
plies.  Then  he  struck  south  of  Fort  Pitt, 
crossed  the  Saskatchewan,  and  hit  between 
the  Blackfoot  Hills  and  the  Vermillion 
River  into  the  Buffalo  Coulee  country.  In 
the  open  country  he  came  upon  occasional 
ranches,  and  at  one  of  these  he  purchased  a 
pack-horse.  At  Buffalo  Lake  he  bought 
his  supplies  for  the  mountains,  including 
fifty  steel  traps,  crossed  the  upper  branch 
of  the  Canadian  Pacific  at  night,  and  the 
next  day  saw  in  the  far  distance  the  purple 
haze  of  the  Rockies. 

It  was  six  weeks  after  the  night  in  Kao's 
place    that    he    struck    the    Saskatchewan 


278          THE  RIVER'S  END 

again  above  the  Brazeau.  He  did  not 
hurry  now.  Just  ahead  of  him  slumbered 
the  mountains;  very  close  was  the  place 
of  his  dreams.  But  he  was  no  longer  im 
pelled  by  the  mighty  lure  of  the  years  that 
were  gone.  Day  by  day  something  had 
worn  away  that  lure,  as  the  ceaseless  grind 
of  water  wears  away  rock,  and  for  two 
weeks  he  wandered  slowly  and  without 
purpose  in  the  green  valleys  that  lay  under 
the  snow-tipped  peaks  of  the  ranges.  He 
was  gripped  in  the  agony  of  an  unutter 
able  loneliness,  which  fell  upon  and 
scourged  him  like  a  disease.  It  was  a 
deeper  and  more  bitter  thing  than  a 
yearning  for  companionship.  He  might 
have  found  that.  Twice  he  was  near 
camps.  Three  times  he  saw  outfits  coming 
out,  and  purposely  drew  away  from  them. 
He  had  no  desire  to  meet  men,  no  desire  to 
talk  or  to  be  troubled  by  talking.  Day 
and  night  his  body  and  his  soul  cried  out 
for  Mary  Josephine,  and  in  his  despair 
he  cursed  those  who  had  taken  her  away 
from  him.  It  was  a  crisis  which  was 
bound  to  come,  and  in  his  aloneness  he 
fought  it  out.  Day  after  day  he  fought  it, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  279 

until  his  face  and  his  heart  bore  the  scars 
of  it.  It  was  as  if  a  being  on  whom  he 
had  set  all  his  worship  had  died,  only  it 
was  worse  than  death.  Dead,  Mary  Jose 
phine  would  still  have  been  his  inspira 
tion;  in  a  way  she  would  have  belonged  to 
him.  But  living,  hating  him  as  she  must, 
his  dreams  of  her  were  a  sacrilege  and  his 
love  for  her  like  the  cut  of  a  sword. 

In  the  end  he  was  like  a  man  who  had 
triumphed  over  a  malady  that  would 
always  leave  its  marks  upon  him.  In  the 
beginning  of  the  third  week  he  knew  that 
he  had  conquered,  just  as  he  had  tri 
umphed  in  a  similar  way  over  death  and 
despair  in  the  north.  He  would  go  into 
the  mountains,  as  he  had  planned.  He 
would  build  his  cabin.  And  if  the  Law 
came  to  get  him,  it  was  possible  that  again 
he  would  fight. 

On  the  second  day  of  this  third  week 
he  saw  advancing  toward  him  a  solitary 
horseman.  The  stranger  was  possibly  a 
mile  away  when  he  discovered  him,  and 
he  was  coming  straight  down  the  flat  of 
the  valley.  That  he  was  not  accompanied 
by  a  pack-horse  surprised  Keith,  for  he 


280          THE  RIVER'S  END 

was  bound  out  of  the  mountains  and  not 
in.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
be  a  prospector  whose  supplies  were  ex 
hausted,  and  that  he  was  easing  his  jour 
ney  by  using  his  pack  as  a  mount.  Who 
ever  and  whatever  he  was,  Keith  was  not 
in  any  humor  to  meet  him,  and  without 
attempting  to  conceal  himself  he  swung 
away  from  the  river,  as  if  to  climb  the 
slope  of  the  mountain  on  his  right.  No 
sooner  had  he  clearly  signified  the  new 
direction  he  was  taking,  than  the  stranger 
deliberately  altered  his  course  in  a  way 
to  cut  him  off.  Keith  was  irritated. 
Climbing  up  a  narrow  terrace  of  shale, 
he  headed  straight  up  the  slope,  as  if  his 
intention  were  to  reach  the  higher  terraces 
of  the  mountain,  and  then  he  swung  sud 
denly  down  into  a  coulee,  where  he  was 
out  of  sight.  Here  he  waited  for  ten 
minutes,  then  struck  deliberately  and 
openly  back  into  the  valley. 

He  chuckled  when  he  saw  how  cleverly 
his  ruse  had  worked.  The  stranger  was 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the  mountain  and 
still  climbing. 

"  Now    what    the    devil    is    he    taking 


THE  RIVER'S  END  281 

all  that  trouble  for? "  Keith  asked  him 
self. 

An  instant  later  the  stranger  saw  him 
again.  For  perhaps  a  minute  he  halted, 
and  in  that  minute  Keith  fancied  he  was 
getting  a  round  cursing.  Then  the  stran 
ger  headed  for  him,  and  this  time  there 
was  no  escape,  for  the  moment  he  struck 
the  shelving  slope  of  the  valley,  he 
prodded  his  horse  into  a  canter,  swiftly 
diminishing  the  distance  between  them. 
Keith  unbuttoned  the  flap  of  his  pistol 
holster  and  maneuvered  so  that  he  would 
be  partly  concealed  by  his  pack  when  the 
horseman  rode  up.  The  persistence  of  the 
stranger  suggested  to  him  that  Mary  Jose 
phine  had  lost  no  time  in  telling  Mc 
Dowell  where  the  law  would  be  most 
likely  to  find  him. 

Then  he  looked  over  the  neck  of  his 
pack  at  the  horseman,  who  was  quite  near, 
and  was  convinced  that  he  was  not  an 
officer.  He  was  still  jogging  at  a  canter 
and  riding  atrociously.  One  leg  was  flap 
ping  as  if  it  had  lost  its  stirrup-hold;  the 
rider's  arms  were  pumping,  and  his  hat 
was  sailing  behind  at  the  end  of  a  string. 


282          THE  RIVER'S  END 

"Whoa!"  said  Keith. 

His  heart  stopped  its  action.  He  was 
staring  at  a  big  red  beard  and  a  huge, 
shaggy  head.  The  horseman  reined  in, 
floundered  from  his  saddle,  and  swayed 
forward  as  if  seasick. 

"  Well,  I'll  be " 

"Duggan!" 

"  Johnny— Johnny  Keith/" 


XXIV 

FOR.  a  matter  of  ten  seconds  neither  of 
the  two  men  moved.  Keith  was 
stunned.  Andy  Duggan's  eyes  were  fairly 
popping  out  from  under  his  bushy  brows. 
And  then  unmistakably  Keith  caught  the 
scent  of  bacon  in  the  air. 

"  Andy — Andy  Duggan,"  he  choked. 
"  You  know  me — you  know  Johnny  Keith 
— you  know  me — you 

Duggan  answered  with  an  inarticulate 
bellow  and  jumped  at  Keith  as  if  to  bear 
him  to  the  ground.  He  hugged  him,  and 
Keith  hugged,  and  then  for  a  minute  they 
stood  pumping  hands  until  their  faces  were 
red,  and  Duggan  was  growling  over  and 
over: 

"  An'  you  passed  me  there  at  McCoffin's 
Bend — an'  I  didn't  know  you,  I  didn't 
know  you,  I  didn't  know  you !  I  thought 
you  was  that  cussed  Conniston!  I  did. 
I  thought  you  was  Conniston!"  He  stood 
back  at  last.  "Johnny — Johnny  Keith!  " 
283 


284          THE  RIVER'S  END 

"Andy,  you  blessed  old  devil!  " 

They  pumped  hands  again,  pounded 
shoulders  until  they  were  sore,  and  in 
Keith's  face  blazed  once  more  the  love  of 
life. 

Suddenly  old  Duggan  grew  rigid  and 
sniffed  the  air.  "  I  smell  bacon  1 " 

"  It's  in  the  pack,  Andy.  But  for 
Heaven's  sake  don't  notice  the  bacon  until 
you  explain  how  you  happen  to  be 
here." 

"  Been  waitin'  for  you,"  replied  Duggan 
in  an  affectionate  growl.  "  Knew  you'd 
have  to  come  down  this  valley  to  hit  the 
Little  Fork.  Been  waitin'  six  weeks." 

Keith  dug  his  fingers  into  Duggan's 
arm. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  coming 
here?"  he  demanded.  "Who  told  you?" 

"  All  come  out  in  the  wash,  Johnny. 
Pretty  mess.  Chinaman  dead.  Johnny 
Keith,  alias  Conniston,  alive  an'  living 
with  Conniston's  pretty  sister.  Johnny  gone 
— skipped.  No  one  knew  where.  I  made 
guesses.  Knew  the  girl  would  know  if 
anyone  did.  I  went  to  her,  told  her  how 
you'n  me  had  been  pals,  an'  she  give  me 


THE  RIVER'S  END  285 

the  idee  you  was  goin'  up  to  the  river's 
end.  I  resigned  from  the  Betty  M.,  that 
night.  Told  her,  though,  that  she  was  a 
ninny  if  she  thought  you'd  go  up  there. 
Made  her  believe  the  note  was  just  a 
blind." 

"  My  God,"  breathed  Keith  hopelessly, 
"  I  meant  it." 

"  Sure  you  did,  Johnny.  I  knew  it.  But 
I  didn't  dare  let  her  know  it.  If  you  could 
ha*  seen  that  pretty  mouth  o'  hern  curlin' 
up  as  if  she'd  liked  to  have  bit  open  your 
throat,  an'  her  hands  clenched,  an'  that 
murder  in  her  eyes — Man,  I  lied  to  her 
then!  I  told  her  I  was  after  you,  an'  that 
if  she  wouldn't  put  the  police  on  you,  I'd 
bring  back  your  head  to  her,  as  they  used 
to  do  in  the  old  times.  An'  she  bit.  Yes, 
sir,  she  said  to  me,  '  If  you'll  do  that,  I 
won't  say  a  word  to  the  police! '  An'  here 
I  am,  Johnny.  An'  if  I  keep  my  word 
with  that  little  tiger,  I've  got  to  shoot  you 
right  now.  Haw!  Haw!" 

Keith  had  turned  his  face  away. 

Duggan,  pulling  him  about  by  the 
shoulders,  opened  his  eyes  wide  in  amaze 
ment. — "  Johnny " 


286          THE  RIVER'S  END 

"  Maybe  you  don't  understand,  Andy," 
struggled  Keith.  "  I'm  sorry — she  feels — 
like  that." 

For  a  moment  Duggan  was  silent.  Then 
he  exploded  with  a  sudden  curse. 
"Sorry!  What  the  devil  you  sorry  for, 
Johnny?  You  treated  her  square,  an*  you 
left  her  almost  all  of  Conniston's  money. 
She  ain't  no  kick  comin',  and  she  ain't  no 
reason  for  feelin'  like  she  does.  Let  'er  go 
to  the  devil,  I  say.  She's  pretty  an'  sweet 
an'  all  that — but  when  anybody  wants  to 
go  clawin'  your  heart  out,  don't  be  fool 
enough  to  feel  sorry  about  it.  You  lied  to 
her,  but  what's  that?  There's  bigger  lies 
than  yourn  been  told,  Johnny,  a  whole 
sight  bigger!  Don't  you  go  worryin'.  I've 
been  here  waitin'  six  weeks,  an'  I've  done 
a  lot  of  thinkin',  and  all  our  plans  are  set 
an'  hatched.  An'  I've  got  the  nicest  cabin 
all  built  and  waitin'  for  us  up  the  Little 
Fork.  Here  we  are.  Let's  be  joyful, 
son!  "  He  laughed  into  Keith's  tense,  gray 
face.  "Let's  be  joyful!" 

Keith  forced  a  grin.  Duggan  didn't 
know.  He  hadn't  guessed  what  that  "  little 
tiger  who  would  have  liked  to  have  bit 


THE  RIVER'S  END  287 

open  his  throat "  had  been  to  him.  The 
thick-headed  old  hero,  loyal  to  the  bottom 
of  his  soul,  hadn't  guessed.  And  it  came 
to  Keith  then  that  he  would  never  tell 
him.  He  would  keep  that  secret.  He 
would  bury  it  in  his  burned-out  soul,  and 
he  would  be  "  joyful "  if  he  could.  Dug- 
gan's  blazing,  happy  face,  half  buried  in 
its  great  beard,  was  like  the  inspiration 
and  cheer  of  a  sun  rising  on  a  dark  world. 
He  was  not  alone.  Duggan,  the  old  Dug- 
gan  of  years  ago,  the  Duggan  who  had 
planned  and  dreamed  with  him,  his  best 
friend,  was  with  him  now,  and  the  light 
came  back  into  his  face  as  he  looked 
toward  the  mountains.  Off  there,  only  a 
few  miles  distant,  was  the  Little  Fork, 
winding  into  the  heart  of  the  Rockies, 
seeking  out  its  hidden  valleys,  its  trailless 
canons,  its  hidden  mysteries.  Life  lay 
ahead  of  him,  life  with  its  thrill  and  ad 
venture,  and  at  his  side  was  the  friend  of 
all  friends  to  seek  it  with  him.  He  thrust 
out  his  hands. 

"  God  bless  you,  Andy,"  he  cried. 
"  You're  the  gamest  pal  that  ever 
lived!" 


288          THE  RIVER'S  END 

A  moment  later  Duggan  pointed  to  a 
clump  of  timber  half  a  mile  ahead.  "  It's 
past  dinner-time,"  he  said.  "There's 
wood.  If  you've  got  any  bacon  aboard,  I 
move  we  eat." 

An  hour  later  Andy  was  demonstrating 
that  his  appetite  was  as  voracious  as  ever. 
Before  describing  more  of  his  own  activi 
ties,  he  insisted  that  Keith  recite  his  ad 
ventures  from  the  night  "  he  killed  that  old 
skunk,  Kirkstone." 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  they  resumed 
their  journey.  An  hour  later  they  struck 
the  Little  Fork  and  until  seven  traveled  up 
the  stream.  They  were  deep  in  the  lap  of 
the  mountains  when  they  camped  for  the 
night.  After  supper,  smoking  his  pipe, 
Duggan  stretched  himself  out  comfortably 
with  his  back  to  a  tree. 

"  Good  thing  you  come  along  when  you 
did,  Johnny,"  he  said.  "  I  been  waitin' 
in  that  valley  ten  days,  an7  the  eats  was 
about  gone  when  you  hove  in  sight.  Meant 
to  hike  back  to  the  cabin  for  supplies  to 
morrow  or  next  day.  Gawd,  ain't  this  the 
life!  An'  we're  goin'  to  find  gold,  Johnny, 
we're  goin'  to  find  it!  " 


THE  RIVER'S  END  289 

"  We've  got  all  our  lives  to — to  find  it 
in,"  said  Keith. 

Duggan  puffed  out  a  huge  cloud  of 
smoke  and  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  pleas 
ure.  Then  he  grunted  and  chuckled. 
''  Lord,  what  a  little  firebrand  that 
sister  of  Conniston's  is!"  he  exclaimed. 
v  Johnny,  I  bet  if  you'd  walk  in  on  her 
now,  she'd  kill  you  with  her  own  hands. 
Don't  see  why  she  hates  you  so,  just  be 
cause  you  tried  to  save  your  life.  Of 
course  you  must  ha'  lied  like  the  devil. 
Couldn't  help  it.  But  a  lie  ain't  nothin*. 
I've  told  some  whoppers,  an'  no  one  ain't 
never  wanted  to  kill  me  for  it.  I  ain't 
afraid  of  McDowell.  Everyone  said  the 
Chink  was  a  good  riddance.  It's  the  girl. 
There  won't  be  a  minute  all  her  life  she 
ain't  thinkin'  of  you,  an'  she  won't  be 
satisfied  until  she's  got  you.  That  is,  she 
thinks  she  won't.  But  we'll  fool  the  little 
devil,  Johnny.  We'll  keep  our  eyes  open 
-an'  fool  her!" 

"  Let's  talk  of  pleasanter  things,"  said 
Keith.  "  I've  got  fifty  traps  in  the  pack, 
Andy.  You  remember  how  we  used  to 
plan  on  trapping  during  the  winter  and 


290          THE  RIVER'S  END 

hunting   for   gold    during   the    summer? " 

Duggan  rubbed  his  hands  until  they 
made  a  rasping  sound;  he  talked  of  lynx 
signs  he  had  seen,  and  of  marten  and  fox. 
He  had  panned  "  colors  "  at  a  dozen  places 
along  the  Little  Fork  and  was  ready  to 
make  his  affidavit  that  it  was  the  same 
gold  he  had  dredged  at  McCoffin's  Bend. 

"  If  we  don't  find  it  this  fall,  we'll  be 
sittin'  on  the  mother  lode  next  summer," 
he  declared,  and  from  then  until  it  was 
time  to  turn  in  he  talked  of  nothing  but 
the  yellow  treasure  it  had  been  his  life 
long  dream  to  find.  At  the  last,  when 
they  had  rolled  in  their  blankets,  he  raised 
himself  on  his  elbow  for  a  moment  and 
said  to  Keith : 

"  Johnny,  don't  you  worry  about  that 
Conniston  girl.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I've 
took  time  by  the  forelock.  Two  weeks 
ago  I  wrote  an'  told  her  I'd  learned  you 
was  hittin'  into  the  Great  Slave  country, 
an'  that  I  was  about  to  hike  after  you.  So 
go  to  sleep  an'  don't  worry  about  that 
pesky  little  rattlesnake." 

"  I'm  not  worrying,"  said  Keith. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  he  heard  Duggan 


THE  RIVER'S  END  291 

snoring.  Quietly  he  unwrapped  his  blan 
ket  and  sat  up.  There  were  still  burning 
embers  in  the  fire,  the  night — like  that  first 
night  of  his  flight — was  a  glory  of  stars, 
and  the  moon  was  rising.  Their  camp  was 
in  a  small,  meadowy  pocket  in  the  center 
of  which  was  a  shimmering  little  lake 
across  which  he  could  easily  have  thrown 
a  stone.  On  the  far  side  of  this  was  the 
sheer  wall  of  a  mountain,  and  the  top  of 
this  wall,  thousands  of  feet  up,  caught  the 
glow  of  the  moon  first.  Without  awaken 
ing  his  comrade,  Keith  walked  to  the  lake. 
He  watched  the  golden  illumination  as  it 
fell  swiftly  lower  over  the  face  of  the 
mountain.  He  could  see  it  move  like  a 
great  flood.  And  then,  suddenly,  his 
shadow  shot  out  ahead  of  him,  and  he 
turned  to  find  the  moon  itself  glowing  like 
a  monstrous  ball  between  the  low  shoul 
ders  of  a  mountain  to  the  east.  The  world 
about  him  became  all  at  once  vividly  and 
wildly  beautiful.  It  was  as  if  a  curtain 
had  lifted  so  swiftly  the  eye  could  not 
follow  it.  Every  tree  and  shrub  and  rock 
stood  out  in  a  mellow  spotlight;  the  lake 
was  transformed  to  a  pool  of  molten 


292          THE  RIVER'S  END 

silver,  and  as  far  as  he  could  see,  where 
shoulders  and  ridges  did  not  cut  him  out, 
the  moonlight  was  playing  on  the  moun 
tains.  In  the  air  was  a  soft  droning  like  low 
music,  and  from  a  distant  crag  came  the 
rattle  of  loosened  rocks.  He  fancied,  for 
a  moment,  that  Mary  Josephine  was  stand 
ing  at  his  side,  and  that  together  they  were 
drinking  in  the  wonder  of  this  dream  at 
last  come  true.  Then  a  cry  came  to  his 
lips,  a  broken,  gasping  man-cry  which  he 
could  not  keep  back,  and  his  heart  was 
filled  with  anguish. 

With  all  its  beauty,  all  its  splendor  of 
quiet  and  peace,  the  night  was  a  bitter 
one  for  Keith,  the  bitterest  of  his  life.  He 
had  not  believed  the  worst  of  Mary  Jose 
phine.  He  knew  he  had  lost  her  and  that 
she  might  despise  him,  but  that  she  would 
actually  hate  him  with  the  desire  for  a 
personal  vengeance  he  had  not  believed. 
Was  Duggan  right?  Was  Mary  Josephine 
unfair?  And  should  he  in  self-defense 
fight  to  poison  his  own  thoughts  against 
her?  His  face  set  hard,  and  a  joyless  laugh 
fell  from  his  lips.  He  knew  that  he  was 
facing  the  inevitable.  No  matter  what 


THE  RIVER'S  END  293 

had  happened,  he  must  go  on  loving 
Mary  Josephine. 

All  through  that  night  he  was  awake. 
Half  a  dozen  times  he  went  to  his  blanket, 
but  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  sleep.  At 
four  o'clock  he  built  up  the  fire  and  at 
five  roused  Duggan.  The  old  river-man 
sprang  up  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  boy. 
He  came  back  from  the  lake  with  his 
beard  and  head  dripping  and  his  face 
glowing.  All  the  mountains  held  no 
cheerier  comrade  than  Duggan. 

They  were  on  the  trail  at  six  o'clock  and 
hour  after  hour  kept  steadily  up  the  Little 
Fork.  The  trail  grew  rougher,  narrower, 
and  more  difficult  to  follow,  and  at  in 
tervals  Duggan  halted  to  make  sure  of 
the  way.  At  one  of  these  times  he  said 
to  Keith: 

"  Las'  night  proved  there  ain't  no  danger 
from  her,  Johnny.  I  had  a  dream,  an' 
dreams  goes  by  contraries  an'  always  have. 
What  you  dream  never  comes  true.  It's 
always  the  opposite.  An'  I  dreamed  that 
little  she-devil  come  up  on  you  when  you 
was  asleep,  took  a  big  bread-knife,  an'  cut 
your  head  plumb  off!  Yessir,  I  could  see 


294  THE  RIVER'S  END 

her  holdin'  up  that  head  o'  yourn,  an' 
the  blood  was  drippin',  an'  she  was 
a-laughin' " 

"Shut  up!"  Keith  fairly  yelled  the 
words.  His  eyes  blazed.  His  face  was 
dead  white. 

With  a  shrug  of  his  huge  shoulders  and 
a  sullen  grunt  Duggan  went  on. 

An  hour  later  the  trail  narrowed  into  a 
short  canon,  and  this  canon,  to  Keith's  sur 
prise,  opened  suddenly  into  a  beautiful 
valley,  a  narrow  oasis  of  green  hugged  in 
between  the  two  ranges.  Scarcely  had 
they  entered  it,  when  Duggan  raised  his 
voice  in  a  series  of  wild  yells  and  began 
firing  his  rifle  into  the  air. 

"  Home-coming,"  he  explained  to  Keith, 
after  he  was  done.  "  Cabin's  just  over 
that  bulge.  Be  there  in  ten  minutes." 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  Keith  saw  it, 
sheltered  in  the  edge  of  a  thick  growth 
of  cedar  and  spruce  from  which  its 
timbers  had  been  taken.  It  was  a  larger 
cabin  than  he  had  expected  to  see — twice, 
three  times  as  large. 

"How  did  you  do  it  alone!"  he  ex 
claimed  in  admiration.  "  It's  a  wonder, 


THE  RIVER'S  END  295 

Andy.  Big  enough  for — for  a  whole 
family!" 

"  Half  a  dozen  Indians  happened  along, 
an'  I  hired  'em,"  explained  Duggan. 
"  Thought  I  might  as  well  make  it  big 
enough,  Johnny,  seein'  I  had  plenty  of 
help.  Sometimes  I  snore  pretty  loud, 
an' " 

"  There's  smoke  coming  out  of  it,"  cried 
Keith. 

"  Kept  one  of  the  Indians,"  chuckled 
Duggan.  "  Fine  cook,  an'  a  sassy-lookin' 
little  squaw  she  is,  Johnny.  Her  husband 
died  last  winter,  an'  she  jumped  at  the 
chance  to  stay,  for  her  board  an'  five  bucks 
a  month.  How's  your  Uncle  Andy  for  a 
schemer,  eh,  Johnny?  " 

A  dozen  rods  from  the  cabin  was  a 
creek.  Duggan  halted  here  to  water  his 
horse  and  nodded  for  Keith  to  go  on. 

"Take  a  look,  Johnny;  go  ahead  an' 
take  a  look!  I'm  sort  of  sot  up  over  that 
cabin." 

Keith  handed  his  reins  to  Duggan  and 
obeyed.  The  cabin  door  was  open,  and 
he  entered.  One  look  assured  him  that 
Duggan  had  good  reason  to  be  "  sot  up.15 


296          THE  RIVER'S  END 

The  first  big  room  reminded  him  of  the 
Shack.  Beyond  that  was  another  room 
in  which  he  heard  someone  moving  and 
the  crackle  of  a  fire  in  a  stove.  Outside 
Duggan  was  whistling.  He  broke  off 
whistling  to  sing,  and  as  Keith  listened  to 
the  river-man's  bellowing  voice  chanting 
the  words  of  the  song  he  had  sung  at  Mc- 
Coffin's  Bend  for  twenty  years,  he  grinned. 
And  then  he  heard  the  humming  of  a  voice 
in  the  kitchen.  Even  the  squaw  was 
happy. 
And  then — and  then — 

"GREAT  GOD  IN  HEAVEN " 


In  the  doorway  she  stood,  her  arms 
reaching  out  to  him,  love,  glory,  triumph 
in  her  face — Mary  Josephine! 

He  swayed;  he  groped  out;  something 
blinded  him — tears — hot,  blinding  tears 
that  choked  him,  that  came  with  a  sob  in 
his  throat.  And  then  she  was  in  his  arms, 
and  her  arms  were  around  him,  and  she 
was  laughing  and  crying,  and  he  heard  her 
say:  "  Why — why  didn't  you  come  back — 
to  me — that  night?  Why — why  did  you — 
go  out — through  the — window?  I — I  was 


THE  RIVER'S  END  29? 

waiting — and     I — I'd     have     gone — with 

you " 

From  the  door  behind  them  came  Dug- 
gan's  voice,  chuckling,  exultant,  booming 
with  triumph.  "  Johnny,  didn't  I  tell  you 
there  was  lots  bigger  lies  than  yourn? 
Didn't  I?  Eh?" 


XXV 

IT  was  many  minutes,  after  Keith's  arms 
had  closed  around  Mary  Josephine,  be 
fore  he  released  her  enough  to  hold  her 
out  and  look  at  her.  She  was  there,  every 
bit  of  her,  eyes  glowing  with  a  greater 
glory  and  her  face  wildly  aflush  with  a 
thing  that  had  never  been  there  before; 
and  suddenly,  as  he  devoured  her  in  that 
hungry  look,  she  gave  a  little  cry,  and 
hugged  herself  to  his  breast,  and  hid  her 
face  there. 

And  he  was  whispering  again  and  again, 
as  though  he  could  find  no  other  word, 
"  Mary— Mary — Mary- 

Duggan  drew  away  from  the  door.  The 
two  had  paid  no  attention  to  his  voice,  and 
the  old  river-man  was  one  continuous 
chuckle  as  he  unpacked  Keith's  horse  and 
attended  to  his  own,  hobbling  them  both 
and  tying  cow-bells  to  them.  It  was  half 
an  hour  before  he  ventured  up  out  of  the 

grove    along    the    creek    and    approached 
298 


THE  RIVER'S  END  299 

the  cabin  again.  Even  then  he  halted, 
fussing  with  a  piece  of  harness,  until  he 
saw  Mary  Josephine  in  the  door.  The  sun 
was  shining  on  her.  Her  glorious  hair 
was  down,  and  behind  her  was  Keith,  so 
close  that  his  shoulders  were  covered  with 
it.  Like  a  bird  Mary  Josephine  sped  to 
Duggan.  Great  red  beard  and  all  she 
hugged  him,  and  on  the  flaming  red  of  his 
bare  cheek-bone  she  kissed  him. 

"  Gosh,"  said  Duggan,  at  a  loss  for  some 
thing  better  to  say.  "  Gosh " 

Then  Keith  had  him  by  the  hand. 
"  Andy,  you  ripsnorting  old  liar,  if  you 
weren't  old  enough  to  be  my  father,  I'd 
whale  the  daylights  out  of  you!  "  he  cried 
joyously.  "  I  would,  just  because  I  love 
you  so!  You've  made  this  day  the — the — 
the " 

" — The  most  memorable  of  my  life," 
helped  Mary  Josephine.  "  Is  that  it — 
John?" 

Timidly,  for  the  first  time,  her  cheek 
against  his  shoulder,  she  spoke  his  name. 

And  before  Duggan's  eyes  Keith  kissed 
her. 

Hours  later,  in  a  world  aglow  with  the 


300          THE  RIVER'S  END 

light  of  stars  and  a  radiant  moon,  Keith 
and  Mary  Josephine  were  alone  out  in  the 
heart  of  their  little  valley.  To  Keith  it 
was  last  night  returned,  only  more  won 
derful.  There  was  the  same  droning  song 
in  the  still  air,  the  low  rippling  of  run 
ning  water,  the  mysterious  whisperings 
of  the  mountains.  All  about  them  were 
the  guardian  peaks  of  the  snow-capped 
ranges,  and  under  their  feet  was  the  soft 
lush  of  grass  and  the  sweet  scent  of 
flowers.  "  Our  valley  of  dreams,"  Mary 
Josephine  had  named  it,  an  infinite  happi 
ness  trembling  in  her  voice.  "  Our  beau 
tiful  valley  of  dreams — come  true!  " 

"  And  you  would  have  come  with  me— 
that  night? "  asked  Keith  wonderingly. 
"  That  night — I  ran  away?  " 

"  Yes.  I  didn't  hear  you  go.  And  at 
last  I  went  to  your  door  and  listened,  and 
then  I  knocked,  and  after  that  I  called  to 
you,  and  when  you  didn't  answer,  I  entered 
your  room." 

"Dear  heaven!"  breathed  Keith. 
"  After  all  that,  you  would  have  come 
away  with  me,  covered  with  blood,  a — a 
murderer,  they  say — a  hunted  man " 


THE  RIVER'S  END  301 

"  John,  dear."  She  took  one  of  his 
hands  in  both  her  own  and  held  it  tight. 
"John,  dear,  I've  got  something  to  tell 
you." 

He  was  silent. 

"  I  made  Duggan  promise  not  to  tell 
you  I  was  here  when  he  found  you,  and  I 
made  him  promise  something  else — to  keep 
a  secret  I  wanted  to  tell  you  myself.  It 
was  wonderful  of  him.  I  don't  see  how 
he  did  it." 

She  snuggled  still  closer  to  him,  and 
held  his  hand  a  little  tighter.  "  You  see, 
John,  there  was  a  terrible  time  after  you 
killed  Shan  Tung.  Only  a  little  while 
after  you  had  gone,  I  saw  the  sky  growing 
red.  It  was  Shan  Tung's  place — afire.  I 
was  terrified,  and  my  heart  was  broken, 
and  I  didn't  move.  I  must  have  sat  at  the 
window  a  long  time,  when  the  door  burst 
open  suddenly  and  Miriam  ran  in,  and 
behind  her  came  McDowell.  Oh,  I  never 
heard  a  man  swear  as  McDowell  swore 
when  he  found  you  had  gone,  and  Miriam 
flung  herself  on  the  floor  at  my  feet  and 
buried  her  head  in  my  lap. 

"  McDowell  tramped  up  and  down,  and 


302          THE  RIVER'S  END 

at  last  he  turned  to  me  as  if  he  was  going 
to  eat  me,  and  he  fairly  shouted,  *  Do  you 
know — that  cursed  fool  didn't  kill  Judge 
Kirkstone!'" 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  Keith's 
brain  reeled.  And  Mary  Josephine  went 
on,  as  quietly  as  though  she  were  talking 
about  that  evening's  sunset: 

"  Of  course,  I  knew  all  along,  from  what 
you  had  told  me  about  John  Keith,  that  he 
wasn't  what  you  would  call  a  murderer. 
You  see,  John,  I  had  learned  to  love  John 
Keith.  It  was  the  other  thing  that  horri 
fied  me!  In  the  fight,  that  night,  Judge 
Kirkstone  wasn't  badly  hurt,  just  stunned. 
Peter  Kirkstone  and  his  father  were 
always  quarreling.  Peter  wanted  money, 
and  his  father  wouldn't  give  it  to  him.  It 
seems  impossible, — what  happened  then. 
But  it's  true.  After  you  were  gone  Peter 
Kirkstone  killed  his  father  that  he  might 
inherit  the  estate!  And  then  he  laid  the 
crime  on  you!" 

"  My  God !  "  breathed  Keith.  "  Mary- 
Mary  Josephine — how  do  you  know?  " 

"  Peter  Kirkstone  was  terribly  burned  in 
the  fire.  He  died  that  night,  and  before 


THE  RIVER'S  END  303 

he  died  he  confessed.  That  was  the  power 
Shan  Tung  held  over  Miriam.  He  knew. 
And  Miriam  was  to  pay  the  price  that 
would  save  her  brother  from  the  hang 
man." 

"  And  that,"  whispered  Keith,  as  if  to 
himself,  "  was  why  she  was  so  interested  in 
John  Keith." 

He  looked  away  into  the  shimmering 
distance  of  the  night,  and  for  a  long  time 
both  were  silent.  A  woman  had  found 
happiness.  A  man's  soul  had  come  out  of 
darkness  into  light. 


THE  END 


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